Battle Wounds
by Incoming Grapefruit
Summary: Merlin hadn't fully recovered from the side-effects of the Serket's poisonous sting when the battle for Camelot began. Now, bone-weary and bitterly disappointed, the last thing he needs is a certain clot-pole ordering him about. Set after 3.02. Non-slash.
1. Chapter 1

_**My first Merlin fanfiction. I hope you all enjoy!**_

_**Set after the court scene at the end of 3.02 (and I'm presuming here that the court took place in the early hours of the morning, since the battle raged throughout the night). Everyone was looking thoroughly exhausted, so I again assumed that the men had slept little since their victory. Aspects of the story may be considered slightly AU (because I can't be ABSOLUTELY sure that the aforementioned assumptions are true), but the majority of the story will be canon-based.**_

_**Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot, nor am I gaining profit through this work of fiction. It all belongs to the BBC.**_

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The bell in the citadel chimed slowly, lugubriously, and nine long notes echoed down the corridors of the castle, humming through stone and wood. A flock of ravens took flight, startled from their temporary perch atop the walls of the courtyard.

Merlin watched them in silence, tracking their progress until they were mere dots on the horizon, squinting through tired and aching eyes against the morning sunlight. He dropped his gaze to the hustle and bustle of the courtyard below, following the rapid movement of the cloaked knights and uniformed guards. Evidence of the recent battle lay about the place; arrow shafts and splintered ladders here and there, a charred heap of what had once been a wagon, dirt and soot and blood darkening the stone underfoot. The fighting itself hadn't crept this close, but the battle's arm of destruction had a long reach. No doubt the wagon had been hit by one of the numerous flaming projectiles.

The situation, he knew, was ten times worse in the lower town. Comparatively, the damage here had been minimal. And yet, although the fires had finally been put out, the acrid stench of burning leather and metal and _flesh_ still swamped the city and pervaded the cold corridors of the castle. Everything stank of death.

Nausea curled at his stomach, hot and intense. So many lives had been lost. So many _men_. They had won the battle, yes; but at a great cost. This was his failure. His weakness.

Pressing his forehead against the cool glass of the tower window, Merlin closed his eyes, wrapping his arms tighter about his knees. He felt awful. Things had happened so quickly, it seemed as though he'd hardly had a chance to breathe since his return to Camelot. The heat of battle had kept him focused and alert throughout the night, shrouding his fatigue and dousing the hot ache in his limbs. But whatever energy reserves he'd drawn from earlier had apparently run dry, leaving him sore and stiff and weary beyond comprehension.

_What I wouldn't give for a dose of poppy juice. I'll never be able to sleep properly if I'm as stiff as a corpse._

And the shallow puncture wound left by the Serket's sting didn't half _throb_. He'd bandaged it clumsily before the battle, concerned to see the clear fluid that still leaked from it when he moved. But since then, he'd had neither the time nor the energy to check on it again. The pain had doubled in the last few hours, though. The ache had become a deep, pulsing burn.

Falling heavily on his back during his brief struggle with the resurrected soldiers probably hadn't helped matters. But he'd been rather too preoccupied to think about such things the time. Perhaps it would be prudent to take a look at the wound again, just to verify that everything was as it should be. If only he wasn't so awfully _tired._

He'd dozed off and on over past couple of hours, tucked away behind the heavy curtain, curled up in the corner of the window seat. Nobody had come looking for him, so he'd assumed that he wasn't needed. After Uther had dismissed them, Gaius had returned to their chambers to rest and Merlin had promised the physician than he'd run along and do the same just as soon as he'd seen to Arthur. But he'd neither run nor waited on his master since the King's announcement. And that had been a long while ago.

In truth, he was simply too exhausted to move. He'd come here to think, to rest for a few moments before Arthur had him scrubbing floors and mending clothes, but once he'd sat down he hadn't found the motivation to rise again. He was secretly hoping that he would remain undisturbed for the rest of the morning.

With a suddenness that made him start, the heavy curtain was yanked back.

"_There_ you are, Merlin."

He froze, wide-eyed.

Prince Arthur stood where the curtain had previously hung, stormy-faced and immovable. His hair was wet and he smelt strongly of the hard, yellow cakes of perfumed soap he often used when bathing after bloodshed. _"It masks the stench of battle,"_ Arthur had once said. He certainly hadn't been lying; the smell dominated Merlin's senses. And with his muscular torso blocking all else from view, it was hard to think about anything _besides_ Arthur's presence.

"Sire," Merlin tried to untangle his limbs, but nothing wanted to cooperate, "I...I was just-"

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest, keeping the curtain in place with his leg. "Well, it's nice to see you hard at work, Merlin." He raised a hand as his manservant shifted on the window seat. "Oh no, don't get up. Just sit back, relax; let the rest of us do the work. No need to strain yourself."

Merlin wanted to answer the biting sarcasm with a retort of his own, but he lacked both the wit and the energy needed to pursue the matter. Instead he glanced away, keeping his gaze averted.

"What?" Arthur prodded his shoulder a little harder than was strictly necessary. "No bumbling excuses?"

The younger man shook his head. Arthur levelled him with a piercing stare, his forehead creasing for the briefest of moments, before straightening abruptly and turning away, striding towards the staircase at the end of the corridor.

"Try and keep up."

O~o~O

The damp cloth fell back into the bucket with a dull _'slosh'_. Merlin flexed his stiff fingers, blinking groggily at the glinting armour spread out neatly across the scrubbed floor in front of him. It would take at least another thirty minutes to dry and polish the squeaky-clean metal plates. In his current state of exhaustion, such a prospect felt like a death sentence.

Although perhaps there was an easier way.

Glancing towards the door to Arthur's chambers and holding his breath, he listened intently for the sound of approaching footsteps. Thus reassured that he wouldn't be caught, he raised his damp, wrinkled right hand and closed his eyes, forcing his mind to calm.

"_Lustro prentiss thigor."_

The words rolled of his tongue as smoothly as his native language and immediately he felt the cold, stiff joints of his damp hand begin to warm. Hot air wafted up towards his face, teasing gently at his fringe, before dying away again with an almost audible sigh. Merlin opened his eyes, the first quiver of a half-smile curving at the corner of his mouth as he basked in the brief satisfaction of this small success.

Deciding that playing with fire twice in one day was tempting fate, he picked up one of Arthur's now-dry armguards and began to manually polish it with a soft rag. The water had removed all traces of blood and soot and heaven-knows-what-else from the surface, and Merlin had to admit that there had been something almost therapeutic in rinsing away the evidence of last night's battle. It offered closure, perhaps; a way to put the whole incident behind him.

A painfully long while later, the armour sat gleaming on its padded, torso-shaped stand in the wardrobe. Merlin sat on the floor, staring at it, vaguely wondering how it had managed to fasten itself away so neatly. _He_ certainly couldn't remember having stood up to attend to it. Heavens above, had he used _magic_?

Before he could fret over the situation any further, the chamber door swung open and a depressingly familiar figure strode into view. He glanced towards his servant, his stony expression darkening.

"Merlin, are you incapable of doing _anything_ today?" He kicked the door closed and threw his hands up in defeat. "Why do I even try? It's useless!"

The younger man turned towards him, stretching his stiff legs out across the floor with an ill disguised wince. "What's useless?"

"_You_ are!" Arthur growled, wrestling himself out of his brown leather jacket, throwing it halfway across the room in anger. "A give you a few simple chores and what do you do? Sit on the floor doing _nothing_ like the useless lump you are."

Merlin returned the frown, weary frustration bubbling up within him, shattering what little self-control he had left.

"If you stopped being a prat for just _one_ second and actually took a good look around, you'd notice that I _have_ done what you asked."

Arthur blinked, momentarily taken aback by the ferocity of his manservant's rebuke. His eyes darted about the room briefly, the tension slowly building, before his shoulders sagged a little and he turned away to face the carved fireplace.

"Fine, you're excused...for now. You can clean my armour later. Go get some rest."

"I've already cleaned it," Merlin muttered as he picked at a loose thread on his shirt sleeve, trying to disguise how much Arthur's initial reprimand had hurt.

Arthur's booted footsteps grew steadily louder as he clomped over to where Merlin was sitting, and the young warlock briefly closed his eyes against the synchronised thumping in his head. Pausing in front of the open wardrobe doors to admire his servant's handiwork, Arthur rubbed a hand down the stubble on his chin.

"Oh. Well." The prince abruptly walked away again. "How was I supposed to know? I've been busy too, you know."

_Just apologise, you dunderhead. Is the smallest measure of gratitude too much to ask for?_

Arthur slumped down heavily into the wooden chair at his table, leaning back with a loud sigh and toeing off his boots. There was a long moment of silence, then:

"Go to bed, Merlin, before your moping depresses me even more. You can have the rest of the day off."

"I'm going." _Maybe in a minute. I'm so darn __**comfy**__ here._

Arthur opened an eye, his gaze drifting lazily towards his manservant. "That usually requires the use of one's legs."

"I know. I'm going."

Another long silence passed between them.

"Merlin."

"Yeah, going, leaving, right now. I'm gone."

The citadel bell chimed twice, the notes long and steady. A pair of footsteps grew slowly louder as they approached the prince's chamber, then faded as the passerby continued on down the corridor. A robin tweeted merrily on the window ledge outside.

"_Merlin_."

"Hmm?"

"Oh, for the love of..._what_ is _wrong_ with you today?" Arthur pushed himself forcefully out of the chair and strode towards him, stocking-footed and frowning.

It was only now that Merlin noticed the dark rings beneath the prince's eyes. Before he had chance to move a muscle, Arthur had reached down and grabbed him firmly by both biceps.

"Here, let me help you."

Arthur hauled him to his feet in one sudden motion – far, far too sudden - and Merlin's vision swam as his weary body frantically tried to compensate for the dramatic change in height and position. Nausea rolled in his stomach again and his muscles cramped, the room spinning about him dauntingly. Then the hands on his biceps were turning him around to face the opposite way – oh, but _which _way was that? – and releasing him just as abruptly.

Had the prince left it at that, Merlin might have perhaps been able to stagger his way out of the door and into the cool, quiet freedom of the castle corridor. However, Arthur added a firm shove for good measure, his hand pressing forcefully against the left side of Merlin's lower back, _right_ where the pain was most intense.

Bright dots exploded before his eyes and he arched away from the pressure with a strangled gasp, his legs weakening beneath him. He crashed onto his hands and knees, dizziness and disorientation clouding the pain of the impact. He felt an intense burn fill his cheeks and neck, as though he'd been in the sun too long, and his fingers began to tingle strangely. Suddenly he felt _beyond_ awful.

Arthur's face was beside his own now, the prince's expression wary, almost cautious. His master was speaking, but none of the sounds formed coherent words and the droning, buzzing noise was worsening his headache tenfold.

"Merlin!"

Someone grabbed his chin in a firm, yet gentle, grip. He tried to focus on the other man's lips, tried to make out what he was saying, but all the bright colours were blurring into each other and his eyelids were drooping. Everything was so heavy.

Why was he lying down? When had that happened?

There were more people now, towering beings of silver and scarlet hovering over him. Then strong arms were hoisting him up and the pain swelled in a climactic crescendo, so he gladly released his hold on consciousness and slipped down into the welcoming realm of nonexistence.

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_**Nothing like a cheerful cliff-hanger to start off a story, eh? ;)**_

_**Loved it? Hated it? Let me know. **__**Feedback is greatly appreciated. **_

_**If you noticed any irregularities in terms of canonical or non-canonical areas of the story/characters, please feel free to point out room for improvement or expansion. Accuracy is my goal.**_

_**Well, shall I post chapter 2? **_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Heavens-a-bloomin-bove!**_

**_I can't tell you how thrilled and flattered I am to have received so many reviews for one chapter alone. My sincerest thanks! And my apologies to the last ten or so reviewers who I didn't manage to reply to - your comments were just as much appreciated, and the cookies equally as delicious, but real life has a bad habit of spoiling my plans from time to time._**

**_Thank you again for all the encouraging reviews. They made this week better than it would otherwise have been. :)_**

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It wasn't until uniformed men burst into the room, swords drawn and ready, that Arthur realised he had been shouting for the guards.

The younger of the two, fair of face and slight in build, glanced about quiet chamber, eyes wary and alert. "Sire?"

The second knight, Sir Gildor, nudged the shorter guard aside. His eyes immediately sought out his prince, worry burning in their depths, but a split second later they had settled on Merlin's unconscious form. Striding swiftly forwards, he sheathed his sword and knelt beside Arthur in one fluid motion, his red cloak pooling about him. He grasped Merlin's shoulder, shaking him gently and calling him by name. Arthur watched as if in a trance, still reeling from the initial shock of his manservant's collapse.

Suddenly, the pale man's eyes cracked open, his limbs stirring and his chest shuddering as he inhaled deeply. The young guard who had been the first to enter the room put away his sword quickly and hurried towards them, coming to stand opposite the two kneeling men. Drawn by the sudden movement, Merlin's bloodshot eyes flickered in his direction, hazy and unfocused, the lids drooping and reopening constantly. Then without warning, his eyes rolled back in their sockets and the lids slid closed again, his facial muscles going lax.

Gildor leaned closer and tapped the boy's cheek gently with an index finger.

"Merlin?"

When he showed no signs of coming around again, the bearded knight straightened quickly, turning his attention to the silent figure beside him. "What happened, sire?"

Arthur blinked, shaken out of his stupor. Running a hand through his hair and gripping it at the crown, he shook his head slowly. "He just collapsed. One moment he was fine and then the next..." He tapered off, watching the guard worriedly as the elder man held a hand to Merlin's forehead. "What is it?"

The knight shook his head, his expression serious. He turned troubled eyes towards the prince. "His brow burns with a fever, sire. I fear he is gravely ill."

A leaden weight, cold and heavy, slid down Arthur's chest and into his stomach. He swallowed heavily against the nausea that churned there. Then roughly pushing the feeling aside and trying to distance himself from his roiling emotions, he clenched his hands into fists, squared his jaw, and glanced up quickly towards the waiting guard.

"Fetch me the court physician. Immediately."

With a respectful bow, the guard sheathed his sword and hurried from the room, his swift footsteps fading as he ran off down the corridor.

Arthur's attention quickly returned to the situation at hand. He nudged Gildor in the side as he bent forwards to slide an arm under Merlin's knees, wrestling the other beneath his manservant's shoulder blades. "Help me move him onto the bed."

The knight glanced at the elaborately carved four-poster, his eyebrows climbing. "Onto _your_ bed, sire?"

"Yes, onto _my_ bed," Arthur snapped, shooting a brief, impatient frown in the older knight's direction. "You swore an oath of obedience, Gildor."

"Arthur," the bearded man said urgently, lowering his voice as he ever did when addressing the future king by his birth name. "Your father will not approve."

Arthur looked at him slowly, meaningfully. "Then no word of this will reach his ears. Now help me."

Shaking his head in silent disapproval, Gildor moved so that he was crouching on Merlin's other side. Slipping his arms alongside Arthur's, beneath the knees and shoulder blades, he tipped his head towards the door. "Please, sire, my chambers are nearby. He is welcome to stay there as long as he needs. The affairs conducted within a knight's chambers are of no concern to your father; he will find no fault in it."

The prince paused, considering the idea, caught between a desire to assist Merlin himself and the need to keep his father's nose out of the situation. Uther tolerated his uncommonly close friendship with his manservant simply because it kept the peace between them, but he'd demonstrated countless times in the past that he saw Merlin as just another lowly subject, and therefore...disposable.

"Please, Arthur, I'm begging you," Gildor implored, his voice deep and pressing. "Too much has happened these past few days. You _know_ your father has no tolerance for the boy; it is Merlin who will bear the brunt of the king's wrath if he is discovered here."

Realising the truth behind the words, Arthur nodded slowly. The stress of the king's ordeal and the impact of the recent battle would take their toll on the senior Pendragon; Uther's usually short temper would be even more strained, his judgements swift and harsh. For days, the servants would be scurry around, heads bowed and eyes fearful, working with twice the efficiency in the hope that they would not displease their king. If he discovered a servant in the prince's own bed, Uther would see Arthur's actions as a betrayal to his birthright, an act of rebellion against the principles of their forefathers.

No, he couldn't endanger Merlin like that. Not after...

Swallowing heavily, he raised his eyes to meet Gildor's gaze, feeling a surge of affection and gratitude for the honest, steadfast knight who had fought alongside him through thick and thin for so many years.

"Thank you."

Gildor dipped his head slowly, respectfully, before readjusting his grip on Merlin's prone form. "Come, sire. We must hurry."

o~O~o

Arthur sat down heavily in the wooden chair at the bedside, face pale, insides churning nauseatingly. He rubbed a hand back and forth over his mouth, shaking his head slowly as he stared at the exposed back.

The skin down the left side was mottled with bruises of varying shades; yellows and greens and blacks in overlapping blotches, trailing from shoulder blade to hip. The bruising on his right side, although visibly lighter, stood out starkly against the pallor of Merlin's skin. But the worst injury by far was the ugly, weeping puncture wound in the left side of his lower back. More than an inch in length and the same again in depth, it looked and _smelled_ infected, shining with a clear, viscus fluid. The skin surrounding the wound was swollen and shiny as though scalded by hot water; a shade of red so dark that appeared almost purple.

Trying to swallow past the dry, scratchy sensation in his throat, he dropped his hand into his lap and glanced up at Gaius. "He was stabbed."

Although it wasn't a question, the elderly physician nodded sadly, taking the blood- and pus-stained strips of cloth that Merlin had used to bandage his wound and tossing them into the crackling fire in the hearth. The fabric caught alight quickly and Gaius turned away, fetching a jar of something from his satchel of supplies and returning to the bedside.

"It wasn't the broad blade of a sword or spear that struck him, sire," he murmured, untying the leather covering and dipping his fingers into the contents of the jar. "I believe a small dagger caused this wound."

Pierced by a dagger? _Merlin?_

Arthur could scarcely fathom it. Disregarding the incident where his servant had been poisoned – because that had been the man's own stupid fault for drinking the wine in the first place, the self-sacrificing idiot – Merlin had always managed to emerge relatively unscathed from whatever battle or full-scale disaster he had fallen into. A bump or two here, a graze there; and then there had been that one time, during their brief skirmish with the resurrected Knights of Medhir, when he'd actually drawn blood. But time and time again, they had faced unlikely odds and survived. Powerful enchantments, dark sorcerers, creatures from a man's worst nightmares, the Great Dragon himself – together they had confronted their foes, and always they had emerged victorious. By force of habit, he had assumed that Merlin had come away from the battle unharmed. The enormity of his own ignorance disgusted him. And yet that was not the worst of it.

Some cowardly _bastard_ had attacked his servant unawares.

No self-respecting knight of Camelot would ever _dream_ of striking a deadly blow when a man's back was turned. Such an act was akin to slaughter and went against every principle he and his men stood for. Cenred's soldiers were nothing more than monsters. Where had been the valour in stabbing a lowly servant from behind? Where had been the dignity?

Arthur curled his hands into fists, grating his teeth together as the rage bubbled within him. He hoped, in the darker recesses of his heart, that the culprit had died a slow and painful death.

"Will he be alright, Gaius?"

The physician glanced up from where he had been smearing honey over the open wound, and Arthur was struck by how haggard and frail he suddenly appeared. The light and energy had gone from his eyes, replaced instead by a sombre weariness that set alight a deep, aching ball of worry in the prince's chest.

"I cannot say for certain," the elderly man sighed, dropping his gaze to the pale and sweating form on the bed. "The blade did not penetrate deeply enough to damage any organs, but the infection is severe. And do you see these marks?"

His forefinger, glistening with honey, hovered over one side of the wound. Arthur bent his head closer, squinting in the fading light of the grey afternoon, and frowned at what he saw. Several thin, black tendrils curled out from the lips of the laceration, snaking their way along the raised, swollen flesh like dark roots through light soil. They were short - barely an inch in length - but a worrisome sight all the same.

"The blackened areas are where the flesh has died," Gaius explained gravely. "Such an occurrence is not uncommon if a severe infection has already set in, but never in all my years have I seen it form so quickly, nor in one so young and healthy. I fear, sire, that the weapon was poisoned."

Arthur swore softly, fisting his hair in his hands and propping his elbows against his knees. He gazed at his manservant for a long moment, his eyes lingering on the pale features that faced him. Gaius had positioned Merlin so that he lay on his stomach with his arms bent loosely beneath the pillow and his head turned to one side. In the dim light, he seemed so young, so vulnerable. So stupidly innocent.

He dragged both hands through his fringe and down his face, feeling the rough scratching of the stubble on his cheeks. "He shouldn't have fought in the battle, Gaius," he murmured numbly. "He can barely lift a sword, how was he to defend himself against trained soldiers? What was I _thinking_?"

Gaius smiled softly, fondly, washing his hands in the basin of hot water that a servant had placed on the wooden table near the hearth. "I believe he would have gone with you anyway, regardless of your wishes. I fear he has learnt that stubbornness from me."

"But how could I have missed this?" Arthur continued, kneading his middle and index fingers into the centre of his forehead, a self-deprecating frown drawing a crease between his eyebrows. "And why didn't he _tell_ me?"

"You had a great deal on your mind, Arthur, he likely didn't wish to add to your burden," the physician said gently, becoming once more the elderly friend he had so often relied upon for solace and counsel in his youth. "If anyone has been blind, it is I. Right from the beginning, I had an inkling that something was amiss, but we discovered the cause of your father's sudden madness shortly following his return and I saw little of him thereafter. Had I paused for a moment and simply _asked_ him what was wrong, perhaps this whole mess could have been avoided."

Arthur glanced up again, his brow creased in confusion. "But that was hours before the battle. Merlin wasn't injured until Cenred's men reached the inner wall; I saw him fighting."

The physician seemed genuinely surprised. "Oh no, sire." He gestured to the darkened area of skin vaguely. "The impact of whatever it was that caused the most severe portion of the bruising during the battle clearly reopened the wound and aggravated the infection; but the injury itself is at least two days old."

His head was reeling. Blinking up at the elderly man, suddenly light-headed, he fumbled for control. When he finally recovered his voice, it was low and hoarse. "That can't be right."

"I'm afraid there can be no mistake," Gaius replied solemnly. "The wound was inflicted long before Cenred's army reached us."

"But how; when? And by _whom_? He hasn't been-" Arthur broke off, his eyes widening as the missing pieces of the puzzle finally slid into place. Gripping the arms of the chair, he met the physician's concerned gaze, his mouth going dry. "He was missing. For hours on end. I assumed he was trying to skive off work, but...he was..."

"Sire?"

Arthur pinned the older man with an intense, serious stare. "Gaius, where was he? That day he went missing, where did he go? Tell me."

Gaius shook his head wearily. "In all honesty, I don't know. He never spoke of it to me." The frail man sighed, gazing sadly at his unconscious ward. "I believe we have reached the same conclusion regarding the time of its infliction, have we not?"

"So it seems." Arthur dropped his head into his hands, pressing the sweaty heels into the sockets of his tired and aching eyes. "How could I have missed this?"

"You couldn't have known," the physician soothed, placing a warm, weathered hand on his shoulder. "Trust me; once that boy has his mind set on something, there is little that can dissuade him."

Despite the weight of guilt and shame in his heart, Arthur sniffed a slight grin. "Yes, I've begun to notice that." Then he glanced again at his manservant's pale face and sighed, chewing on his lower lip.

"You are not to blame, Arthur."

He didn't need to ask how Gaius knew his innermost thoughts, and the automatic denial that rose to his lips died a moment later. Such words would be futile, meaningless. Oh, how he had missed the older man's counsel. In recent years, the pressures of his increasing responsibilities as heir to the throne of Camelot had gradually drawn them further apart; but there had been a time, in his youth, when the enormity of his inheritance had proven too weighty to bear and he had found himself in need of a strong, reassuring hand on his shoulder and a wise, soothing voice telling him that all would be well in the morning. Gaius had filled a role that his own father, too often consumed by his grief over Ygraine's death, could not.

The physician's absence from his life in recent years had pained him. He had reached adulthood at a sprint, eager to prove himself and gain the respect of the older knights under his command. All the attention - and a significantly looser rein - had changed him. And it hadn't been for the better. If Merlin hadn't blundered along into his life, who could tell what sort of a man he would have become?

Gaius patted his shoulder gently, smiling, before moving away to attend to Merlin's wound. "You should get some rest, sire. It has been a long day."

Arthur spared a glance towards the only window in the wide chamber, frowning at the grey clouds that hung overhead. There was no way of telling what the hour was. Not yet mid afternoon, he guessed. At least he hadn't _heard_ the citadel bell striking thrice to signify said hour.

He shook his head. "I'm all right. I can stay a while longer."

"Sire, please. There is nothing you can do here. Sir Gildor will be returning from his duty shortly, no doubt with orders from the king to ascertain your whereabouts. Your father will want to know that you are resting after the battle; he cares a great deal for your wellbeing."

Defeated, Arthur pushed himself stiffly to his feet, flexing his aching shoulders. "You will inform me immediately of any changes in his condition?" Gaius inclined his head. "Anything you need, anything at all, don't hesitate to ask for it," the prince continued, trying to avert his gaze from the physician's penetrating eyes. He was beginning to sound all too concerned. "I will inform the guard outside to fetch whatever you require without question. If I have not returned by sundown, I want you to send someone to wake me, understood?"

A warmth had returned to the elderly man's deep blue eyes. "It will be done, sire. And thank you."

With a stiff nod and a last glance at the prone form of his manservant, Arthur turned and strode resolutely from the room, shutting the door behind him.

o~O~o

"Gaius?"

He started at the faint voice, the pestle slipping from his fingers and clattering loudly against the rim of the clay mortar and tipping it over, spilling ground herbs across the wooden table. He didn't spare the mess a glance, already hurrying over to the four-poster bed where his patient was beginning to stir beneath the coverlets. He and Sir Gildor had settled Merlin on his good hip, held in place by a feather pillow on either side of his body. Beneath the light blanket he was naked from the waist up. This was partly to make the wound more easily accessible, but also to allow Gaius to bathe the burning skin with cool water in an attempt to lower the raging fever. Three hours had passed and still it showed no sign of abating.

Rounding the bed quickly and leaning down, he pressed a callused hand to the boy's too-warm brow.

"Merlin?" he called, his voice low and gentle. "Can you hear me?"

Pale eyelids fluttered, straining against the weight of sleep that held them down. After what seemed like an eternity, they slid open fully to reveal the fever-glazed orbs beneath. The boy winced up at him, confusion and discomfort written across his features.

"Wha' happened?"

Concern and relief battling within him for dominance, Gaius smoothed back his ward's dark and sweaty locks. "You collapsed in Arthur's chambers earlier this afternoon. The wound in your back had become infected. And Merlin," he lowered his voice so that it was barely above a whisper, conscious of the guard standing just outside the oak door, "I know magic when I see it. This was no normal affliction. How did you acquire such a wound? Was it Morgause?"

"M'sorry." Merlin croaked hoarsely, his face pained. "Should've told you. I didn't know. I...it was...m'sorry."

"My boy, I'm not angry," Gaius soothed, sitting down on the edge of the mattress, his hand still resting on Merlin's forehead. "But it is vital that you tell me how you came by such a wound."

Merlin sucked in quick, shallow breaths through his nose, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "A creature. In the forest of the druids," he explained shakily. Finding the strength to talk was clearly an effort for him. "Morgause bound me with magic. She and Morgana...they left. I couldn't break the chains. I tried...I tried so hard, but...it was no use. The creatures surrounded me. There were too many of them. Too many. One struck me, I...I couldn't see. Hurt so much."

Gaius was glad he had chosen to sit down. He gripped Merlin's shoulder gently, heart beating rapidly against his ribcage. "A nest of serkets? Merlin, their venom is potent. You should have perished."

The boy gave a shaky, pained laugh. "Sorry to disappoint you."

"Merlin."

"Kilgharrah saved me," the younger man explained wearily, closing his eyes. "I called to him and he came. He used magic to heal me." He chuckled weakly, then winced. "Doesn't seem to have worked very well."

"He healed you of the serket's venom," Gaius said, tugging the blankets a little higher over Merlin's shoulder. "And for that you should be grateful. I have no cure for such an affliction. Even if you had made it back to Camelot, there would have been little I could have done."

Merlin cracked an eye open, the ghost of his usual grin flitting across his pale features. "That's what you always say, but we've never failed to find a cure before."

"Hush," the physician admonished with a smile, reaching to the side to take the cloth from the bowl of water on the bedside table. Wringing it out briefly, he folded it into a long wad and pressed it to the boy's forehead. Merlin closed his eyes again, groaning softly.

"S'nice."

"Hush," Gaius repeated, this time more gently. "You have a high fever. The dragon's magic may have purged the venom from your system, but it left you weakened and vulnerable to infection. You're lucky you collapsed when you did – another day without treatment and it may have been too late."

He felt the lad's brow crease beneath the cloth. "M'sorry."

Gaius smoothed the dark hair back a second time, turning the cloth over in his other hand so that the cooler side now kissed the fevered skin. "Shh, enough apologies. There will be time to talk of such things when you are feeling better. You need to rest."

Merlin didn't need further prompting. With a deep, weary sigh, he pressed his face further into the feather pillow, relaxing against the bed. Within moments, he had drifted off. Gaius removed the cloth and returned it to the bowl, gazing down fondly at the snoozing lad beside him. Tucking the blankets closer about the boy's slight frame, he smiled softly.

"Sleep well, Merlin."

* * *

**_I am SO relieved that today's episode revealed the medicinal properties of honey - I've noticed that people take in facts with greater ease if they hear it from their favourite TV show. *grins* I wasn't looking forward to explaining it here AND in my review replies. But indeed, honey was used as a successful antibacterial for hundreds of years before modern scientific medicine took over. A friend of mine used it in an advanced biology experiment last year, and the effects were truly surprising. _**

**_The next chapter should be posted in about three or four days._**

**_Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed the installment! Feel free to leave a review. Any feedback is much appreciated. :)_**

**_Stay safe!_**

**_X_**


	3. Chapter 3

**_Hallooo!_**

**__****_186 Story Alerts! Wow. Christmas really has come early._**  


**_I really can't begin to express how overwhelmed I am by the response so far. A huge thank you to everyone who reviewed/added me to their favourites/tagged me on author alert, etc.. Especially the anonymous reviewers, who leave comments even though they KNOW they're unlikely to get any form of a reply. I truly do appreciate the sentiment!_**

**_I hope you enjoy the chapter. :)_**

* * *

Torches flickered in the twilight of the frigid corridor, casting dark phantoms that lapped at the floor and danced along the stone walls. The castle was quiet and deserted, ominously so, and a tangible sense of hollowness hung about the place.

Arthur's long stride ate up the distance to Sir Gildor's chambers, the speed of his progression fanning the torch flames so that they bent at sharp angles and scattered the shadows before him. He was painfully aware of the too-loud stomping of his leather boots against the ground and the harsh '_swish'_ of his clothing that preceded every step. And despite having slept undisturbed for several hours, fatigue still clung to his limbs like leaden weights; a ubiquitous exhaustion, unremitting and bone-deep.

Curse his fatigued body, he had slept far too long.

Had he not left _specific_ instructions that he was to be roused if he had not returned by sundown? He considered Gaius a friend, but an order was an order. And yet...something seemed amiss. It was unlike the physician to disregard his request so readily. Merlin, perhaps – the idiot had a propensity for agreeing to act upon Arthur's bidding and then doing the exact opposite. But Gaius? No. No, it couldn't be so. Something was wrong, something had happened.

He would later convince himself that it was pent-up frustration and _not_ a gut-gnawing sense of fear that had him jogging the rest of the way along the corridor and up the short flight of stairs that lead to the east wing. Relief swept through him as he reached the top step and caught sight of the armour-clad figure of Cuthryn, the young guard he had posted outside Sir Gildor's chambers. The man's posture looked decidedly slumped - a word rarely attributed to the dedicated, eager-to-please boy beneath the helmet – but that was to be expected, Arthur mused, after six long hours of sentry duty.

He slowed his pace to a confident stroll as he approached the waiting guard, using the time it took to walk the ten or so metres that separated them to compose himself. Cuthryn heard his heavy-footed approach, squaring his shoulders and straightening his back before Arthur had even made it halfway.

"Cuthryn," the prince greeted, hiding a wince when the low word reverberated down the long stone passageway.

The guard bowed swiftly. "Sire."

"I trust all is well?"

"There have been no disturbances," Cuthryn replied obediently. "The physician sent for a servant girl just before sundown, but she departed not an hour ago. A number of knights have passed this way and although many questioned my presence, none save the girl have entered Sir Gildor's chambers."

Arthur clapped the shorter man firmly on the shoulder and moved to take hold of the door handle. "You have done well," he said, inclining his head towards the staircase at the end of the corridor. "Go and rest. I'll see that you duties are lightened tomorrow morning."

Cuthryn bowed again, his bloodshot hazel eyes lighting up. "Thank you, sire."

Once certain that the guard was definitely leaving, Arthur pushed the heavy oaken door open, wincing again as it creaked portentously on its hinges. A wave of warm, pungent air swept towards him and he wrinkled his nose, although the scent wasn't necessarily an unpleasant one. The smell reminded him of Gaius' chambers in the summer; the humid afternoon air alive with the sweet, sharp fragrance of wild herbs and roots, intermingled with the heavier, muskier odour of numerous dried fungi and ground tree barks. The sun would glint off the translucent glass jars that lined the physician's shelves and Arthur would stare, eyes wide and alight with childish fascination, at their gruesome contents. It was a homely smell, one that carried with it a sense of comfort; like the familiar, heady aroma of the old hunting jacket at the back of his wardrobe. It seemed somehow fitting when one considered the occupants of the room.

Someone had drawn the heavy curtain across the single stained-glass window, blocking any external source of light that the clear night sky may have provided. The fire in the hearth to his left had burned low, the tiny flames licking lazily at what little charred wood remained. Two plain candelabras, each holding four candles apiece, illuminated the four-poster bed from their respective positions; one atop the dresser and the other in the centre of the small wooden table where Gaius had set out his healing supplies.

Arthur's gaze lingered for a moment on the wizened old form slumped over the bed. The physician's upper body rested, head pillowed in folded arms, on the area of mattress next to Merlin's hip. Wispy, shoulder-length silver hair shrouded his weathered face, and for the second time that day Arthur was struck by just how _old_ the man appeared. He seemed so haggard and frail that the prince was hesitant to wake him. Although Gaius had not taken up a sword during the battle for Camelot, he had waged a war of his own down in the makeshift hospital, warding off death itself; labouring unwaveringly until their victory at dawn and beyond, only taking rest after the king had dismissed them from the throne room.

Arthur's own actions seemed so meagre in comparison.

To soothe his conscience, he tarried several minutes longer than was necessary by the fireside, adding extra logs to the glowing embers and coaxing the flames gently with the iron poker until they leapt up and eagerly began to engulf the fuel. When at last he felt that he could no longer delay the inevitable, he slowly straightened and made for the bedside.

"Gaius," he called softly, gently gripping the elderly man by the shoulder. Gaius stirred with a sharp intake of breath, joints popping as he quickly pushed himself upright. Arthur applied enough pressure to keep him seated. "It's all right, it's just me."

The physician sagged visibly, pinching the bridge of his nose, breathing slightly laboured. "Sire. What time is it?"

"At a guess, I'd say early evening," Arthur replied softly, moving over to the table and pouring water from a clay pitcher into one of the wooden goblets that stood there. "But I cannot be certain. The guard will know."

This, although true, was a useless statement considering he had dismissed Cuthryn only a moment ago. Wonderful.

Gaius made as though to rise. "Forgive me for not waking you, sire. I must have drifted off."

"There's no need to apologise, Gaius. Here."

Arthur pressed down on the physician's shoulder again and passed him the drink. The elderly man took it with a nod of thanks, glancing towards Merlin's still form as he drank deepy. The prince followed his gaze, feeling a familiar sense of unease creeping back into his stomach. Merlin now lay on his back, his arms resting by his sides on top of the light coverlet, which had been pulled down to his hips. Cream-coloured bandages were wrapped around his midriff, swathing his hips and winding lower to disappear beneath the blankets. His exposed chest, pale against the dark cream of the bed sheets, glistened with a fine layer of sweat.

"How is he?"

"His condition has greatly improved, sire." Arthur could hear the intermingled relief and pride in the physician's voice. "I'm hoping that his fever will break shortly." He took another long drink, then set the cup down on the bedside dresser and pressed a hand to Merlin's sweat-drenched forehead. His brow creased momentarily before he rose and moved to examine his healing supplies. "Sir Gildor was kind enough to aide me in binding the wound shortly after you retired to your chambers, but that was hours ago. I need to sit him up in order to change the dressing."

Arthur stood quickly, eager to do something, _anything_ to assist the physician. Idleness did not sit easily with him, even on a good day. Palming Merlin's shoulder blade with one hand, he braced the other across the younger man's chest, wincing as he felt the fever through the thin material of his tunic sleeve. Gaius aided him from the other side of the bed, moving the still form into a sitting position with practised ease. Within moments, the physician had unwound the cloth bandage and was setting it aside, lowering his ward back onto the mattress.

"Careful, sire," Gaius cautioned softly, turning the boy so that he rolled onto his hip. "I need him on his side for a moment."

Arthur propped his knee up on the mattress and positioned a plump feather pillow along Merlin's chest so that he wouldn't roll too far forwards and fall off the bed. Knowing his manservant's clumsy predisposition, it was better to be safe than sorry. He stepped back to admire his handiwork, but found his gaze drifting again to Merlin's pale features. With an unwanted stab of anxiety, he realised that the boy's lax facial expression had remained unchanged.

"He didn't even stir," he murmured, leaning in close to reassure himself that the younger man was still breathing.

Gaius glanced up at him briefly. "It's nothing we need to worry about. I just gave him something to help him sleep when he awoke earlier this evening. That along with the fever will keep him under a while longer, I deem."

Nodding, Arthur slowly circled the bed so that he could get a better view of his manservant's back. Upon first glance it seemed relatively unchanged, but as Gaius peeled back the small square of cloth that covered the actual puncture wound, the level improvement became suddenly apparent. The immense swelling of the surrounding flesh had gone down significantly and the skin, which had previously appeared beat-red, had dulled to a far less concerning hue. Even the bruising seemed to have begun to fade.

"Remarkable," he breathed.

"Indeed," the physician replied absently, his tone distracted, reaching for a jar he had set down further along the mattress. "Fortunately for Merlin, his attacker chose to make use of a fairly common poison." Gaius dipped his middle and index fingers into the amber honey. "As you can see, it was easily treatable. With time and rest, he should make a full recovery."

A wave of relief swept through him, its hold so strong that Arthur had to grasp the back of a nearby chair as the fire in his veins instantly cooled. He managed a stiff nod, clearing his throat with a great deal of effort.

"Good. That's...that's good news."

He found that he couldn't draw his gaze away from the old, wrinkled fingers that dabbed golden honey over the open wound with a gentleness foreign to his own hands. He watched in silence, barely moving for fear of breaking the moment. He wondered briefly if Merlin knew just how much Gaius cared for him; the depth of his love and devotion. The man's eyes were so expressive, so warm and caring, that the longing in Arthur's chest swelled to a deep, throbbing ache. He had seen that expression before - in snippets of fond memories from his own childhood when he had required the physician's attention for some minor injury or ailment - but never had the adoration been so palpable. Merlin, he realised, was more than just the man's ward. Gaius loved him as a son. And try as he might, Arthur could not help the deep-rooted pang of envy that growled within him.

Even after the physician moved away from his patient, Arthur remained quiet and unmoving, eyes distant, lost in his own thoughts. It wasn't until Gaius began to grind strong-smelling, unfamiliar herbs that his curiosity finally got the better of him.

"What are you making?"

Gaius glanced towards him, then at Merlin, before returning his attention to the mixture and adding a drizzle of clear liquid from a small vial. "A simple poultice, sire. It will help to draw out what is left of the infection."

Arthur nodded wordlessly, wiping sweaty palms against his thighs in a slow, repetitive motion until the friction made his hands tingle. Neither of them spoke again for several minutes, permitting the loud scraping of the pestle against the roughened stone of the mortar to fill the would-be silence. Arthur found his eyes straying to Merlin's back for the hundredth time that day, swallowing as he again experienced a discomforting jolt of distress and guilt in the pit of his stomach. Though, he noted with relief, it was significantly less intense than it had previously been.

Although he would never admit to it aloud, his manservant's collapse had severely unsettled him. This wasn't the younger man's first brush with death, but the incident with the poisoned wine had happened so very long ago, at a time when he and Merlin had barely known each other. Losing him back then had seemed an unpleasant and mildly distressing prospect, but it had been a far cry from the way he had felt this afternoon. He'd felt...it had been...

_Stop._ His fatigue was making him disgustingly sentimental. He shook his head to banish the thought, scrubbing a hand over his scratchy, aching eyes. What had happened had happened, and that was all there was to it. What use was there in dwelling in the past?

Gaius pressed a square of cloth, smeared with the thick, green poultice, against the knife wound. He glanced towards Arthur. "If you could, sire?"

A minute or so later, they were lowering Merlin back onto the mattress, his midriff neatly bandaged. As his head settled against the deep feather pillow, the injured man sucked in a sharp breath through his nose and shifted beneath the coverlet, a pained frown forming on his glistening brow. Arthur paused fearfully, hopefully.

"Merlin?"

But there was no further response from the younger man except the steady, shallow rise and fall of his bare chest. The prince sat back in his chair at the bedside, running a hand through his hair absently as his heart raced against his will.

"Is he alright?" he asked, and grimaced at the level of concern in his voice. A nagging, princely voice at the back of his mind urged him to defend his pride with a snide remark somewhere along the lines of _"to hear him, you'd think he was dying"_, but the second the thought had spoken, he quelled it in anger and disgust, his stomach churning.

"I misjudged his level of awareness," Gaius explained softly, pressing a damp rag to his ward's forehead as he sat down on the edge of the bed. "I had hoped that he would sleep deeply through the worst of it." He sighed, shaking his head fondly at the prone form beside him. "Sometimes he can be too stubborn for his own good."

The prince kept his mouth firmly shut, fearing that the _voice_ – the disdainful, sanctimonious voice that sneered at others constantly, and far too often spoke his father's own words – would find a way to escape its fragile prison now that Arthur's defences were weakened by exhaustion. And he wasn't the only one struggling with a cumbersome fatigue. If the droop of his shoulders and the lax tilt to his mouth were anything to go by, Gaius desperately needed to retire to bed.

"Gaius," he spoke, averting his gaze from the elder man's awkwardly. "You should get some rest. I'll sit with him. My father won't have need of me until morning."

"I must see to the wounded first," the physician answered, already gathering his healing supplies and securing them in his satchel. "But I will rest afterwards. Thank you, sire."

Arthur brushed invisible dust off his breeches, clearing his throat. "Is there anything I need to do for him? While you're away, I mean."

Gaius paused at the bedside and held up a small glass vile. He shook it gently. "This will ease the pain and help him to sleep, should he wake up before my return. See if you can coax him into drinking it down with a little water or sweetened wine. If his fever worsens, keep his brow cool and send for me."

Nodding, Arthur took the vial and carefully set it down on top of the dresser. He avoided the physician's gaze, staring fixedly at the dripping candelabra as Gaius briefly caressed Merlin's forehead, bid Arthur a soft farewell and hurried from the room. It wasn't until the echo of the door's groan had finally faded that he sagged in the chair, head in his hands, and resigned himself to a long and sleepless night.

o~O~o

He awoke a short time later to the low groaning of the door. Before he could open his mouth to scold the intruder for entering a knight's chambers uninvited, a clear voice rang out, distressed and contrite and _wonderfully_ familiar.

"I'm sorry I took so long, Gaius," she said, shuffling into the room backwards, propping the door open with one foot. "Morgana wanted to retire to bed early and then the kitchen servants were rather uncooperative and I-"

She stopped mid-sentence, having finally turned around to face the only conscious occupant of the room. The door groaned shut behind her as she stood frozen in place, the tray of food quivering under the sudden strength of her grip.

Arthur was the first to break the silence. He cleared his throat, his mouth suddenly dry. "Guinevere."

Gwen swallowed reflexively, dropping her gaze and dipping into a curtsey. "Sire. Forgive me, I thought that Gaius was...never mind. I- I should go."

"No." He was on his feet in a second, his heart pounding with infuriating vigour against his ribcage. "I mean, you don't have to...if you don't want to. I sent Gaius to get some rest."

"Perhaps you'd like some food," she suggested quickly, hurrying forwards and setting the tray down on the table. "Gaius told me you were asleep, so you probably haven't eaten in a while."

That was certainly true. And now that he thought about it, the gnawing sensation in his gut wasn't just guilt and self-hatred. He was _starving_.

"Thank you," he said, reaching out to move the water pitcher and make more room from the tray.

A warm hand touched his and Gwen - who had reached for the jug at the very same moment - pulled her arm back quickly, blushing and looking away. "Sorry."

Arthur's hand tingled where her fingers had brushed against his own. He licked dry lips. "Don't be." _Ever._

Dark brown eyes rose slowly to meet his own, eyes so deep that he could lose himself in them forever. For a long moment she held his gaze silently, unblinkingly. Then, in a rare display of boldness, she closed the short distance between them and wrapped her arms about his shoulders, burying her face in his neck. The soft fabric of her dress swished about him, propelled by her sudden advance, and the short puff of cool air it created blew against his flushes face teasingly. His arms were around her in a split second, one around her waist and the other beneath her shoulder blades. Her subtle curves seemed to meld with the bend of his arm, locking them together in comfort and security. A perfect match, he mused bitterly. Oh, how his heart yearned for it to be so in the eyes of his people.

"I feared I would lose you," she whispered, her breath hot and moist against his skin, sending pleasurable shivers down his spine. "The men spoke of sorcery, of an enemy that could not be slain. The battle seemed to last for an eternity and after it was over, I- you were never alone."

Holding her body close, Arthur turned his head to the side and pressed a long, tender kiss to her temple. "I'm sorry."

The words seemed so inadequate, so hollow, but he could think of nothing else to say. They remained that way, locked in each other's embrace, for a long while. The feel of her warm, slim body against his seemed to lift the depression that had settled on his heart, adding a renewed glow to the fire in the hearth and brightening the flickering flames of the candles. When at last she pulled away and Arthur was forced to release her, he reached out and brushed a stray dark curl from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. The brilliant smile he was rewarded with made their momentary separation worth it.

"How is he?"

Oh, yes. Merlin. Of course.

Blinking forcefully to snap out of the warm, fuzzy state of mind he's happily slipped into, Arthur turned to follow her gaze, leaning casually against one of the carved wooden bedposts. Oblivious to all, Merlin lay with his head turned to the side, sweat glistening on his exposed skin and cheeks flushed an unhealthy pink, contrasting vividly with the pallor of the rest of his skin. The oaf was a marble-skinned ninny on the best of days, but in sickness he appeared near death. And to witness him lying so still and _silent_ was wholly unsettling.

"Gaius says his condition has improved," he replied softly. "I'm sure he'll be back to his usual annoying self in a a day or so."

Gwen smiled at him as she moved to feel Merlin's forehead with the palm of her hand. The smile quickly faded, morphing into a soft frown of concern. Shaking her head, she sighed. "His brow still burns with fever."

She wrung out the cloth from the basin at the bedside and pressed it to his forehead, swiping an arm quickly across her eyes. Arthur feared for a moment that she had begun to cry, but soon discovered that the problem was not emotional distress but sheer fatigue. Away from the fireside, in the shadow of the bed canopy, the bags beneath her eyes were far more noticeable.

"Guinevere, you need to rest."

Her smile appeared forced, strained, and she dropped her gaze a little too quickly. "I'm fine, Arthur. There's a great deal still to do, and not enough people to help do it."

"There's nothing that can't wait 'til morning, I'm sure," the prince argued, moving to grasp her by the shoulders. Helping her up, he steered her carefully towards the door, but only made it as far as the table before she ground to a halt. He turned her around, pinching her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger. "Please, Gwen. For me?"

She sighed, her shoulders drooping. "All right." Dark eyes flickered towards the food-laden tray. "But promise me that you'll eat all of it. You must keep up your strength." She reached over and delicately poured a goblet of sweet wine. Pressing the cup into his hand, she smiled again. "It took a great deal of persuasion to coax it out of the kitchen servants. And you wouldn't want all that effort to go to waste, would you?"

He took her hand in his spare one and brought it to his lips, kissing the back of her fingers. "No, my lady."

With another blush and a brief curtsey, she turned and hurried from the room, mumbling an embarrassed _"goodnight"_ as the door swung shut behind her. Arthur grinned, his heart feeling decidedly lighter, and raised the glass in the direction of her departure as a silent toast to her good health. Then, shaking his head, he sighed and took a long, deep drink, savouring the sharp tang of the sweetened beverage.

"You should've kissed her."

It was a miracle that he didn't spit the wine right back out again. Instead, eyes wide as he swallowed reflexively, he turned to face the speaker. Two cerulean eyes stared back at him, glazed by fever and exhaustion, but the slight grin tugging at one side of the mouth filled his heart with relief and irritation in equal measure.

"Merlin!"

* * *

**_The full Arthur/Merlin scene will feature in next week's chapter. _**

**_PLEASE NOTE: I had a number of reviewers expressing their concerns regarding my apparent abandonment of this story. FYI, that will never happen. EVER. To ANY of my stories. I never write/post something unless I know exactly how it's going to end, so I promise I'm not going to suddenly come down with a severe case of writer's block._**

**_Since I'm off home for a long four-day weekend (because if I go another week without a hug from my little sister, I might just die), the next chapter won't be posted for at least seven days. Maybe six if all goes well at uni._**

**_As always, feedback is awesome! Let me know how it was. :)_**

**_xxxx_**


	4. Chapter 4

_**200 STORY ALERTS!**_

_**You wonderful folk make me so happy. A**__** massive thank you to all those who reviewed, especially the anonymous reviewers to whom I cannot reply individually. Each and every comment was greatly appreciated!**_

* * *

He was at the bedside in an instant, his heart thumping a rapid tattoo within his chest, his breathing slightly laboured from the sheer relief of it all. A heartfelt _"thank __**God**__ you're alright"_ was itching to get out, but the words sounded so disgustingly sentimental that he bit them back at the very last moment. Nodding awkwardly and slowly wiping his sweaty hands on his breeches, he cleared his throat, finding himself at a loss for words.

Merlin raised an eyebrow and peered up at him drowsily, managing to look distinctly smug despite his apparent lassitude. The prince shifted his weight onto the other leg, averting his gaze. His initial exclamation of _"Merlin"_ still hung in the air like a spell waiting to be broken, and consequently the growing silence between them only served to heighten his embarrassment. Curses, he couldn't stand this; he had to say _something_.

"So." The word came out hoarse; a pathetic little rasp wholly unbefitting for the crown prince of a great kingdom. _Oh, __**Fie**__._ He cleared his throat again, tugging at the cuffs of his loose tunic. "I see you've finally decided to wake up."

"Unfortunately," Merlin croaked. He peered groggily at his surroundings, eyes hazy and unfocused. "Wha' time is it?"

Arthur gnawed on his bottom lip thoughtfully. Having fallen asleep, he had lost all sense of time. How long had he sat dozing at the bedside? Hours? Or mere minutes? He certainly didn't _feel _well rested, but considering the stress and toil of the past few days, that was not surprising.

Signalling for Merlin to wait a moment – a pointless gesture, he realised, since the younger man could barely muster up the strength to raise his head – he strode to the window and opened it, angling his body so that it kept the heavy curtain from blocking his view. Although there was no wind, the night air was cold and biting as he thrust his head and shoulders out to peer up at the sky. Every breath steamed, swirling upwards in a cloud of white and quickly fading in the pale light of the full moon. Studying the stars for brief moment and completing the mental arithmetic, he swiftly withdrew from the frigid air and closed the window softly behind him, allowing the curtain to fall back into place.

"Late evening," he answered, returning to Merlin's side. "Almost midnight, give or take half an hour."

His manservant grunted in acknowledgement, the drooping eyelids sliding closed again.

"No you don't." Arthur reached out to grip the other man's shoulder, shaking him so gently that he barely moved at all. "Not just yet."

"I wasn't going to fall sleep," Merlin protested, his mouth twitching at the corners. "It's just that staring at your face is starting to make me feel sick."

Arthur felt a familiar, Merlin-inspired exasperation begin to creep in. "Just because I'm not going to put you in the stocks when you're injured _doesn't_ mean that I can't make your life a living hell for the next ten years."

The younger man huffed a weak chuckle, wincing as it pulled at his injury. "Provided that I live that long, of course."

Sobering immediately, Arthur nudged the side of the mattress with his knee. "Don't talk that way; I won't hear of it. You'll recover soon enough."

"What?" Merlin's eyes opened again, alight with confusion. Then realisation dawned and a true, although somewhat weary smile brightened his pale features. "I didn't mean _that_, you pillock. I meant- Oh, never mind."

He raised an arm to wave away the matter, only to drop it again a moment later with a low grunt, his face scrunched up in pain. "Uhn."

Arthur inched closer, a worried frown pinching his brow. "Merlin?"

"It's nothing," the younger man insisted, his bare chest rising and falling rapidly as he sought control, his forehead glistening with sweat in the flickering light of the candles. "Just a twinge."

Arthur frowned as concern, unbidden and defiant, rose up within him. Wetting his suddenly dry lips, he lowered himself into the chair at the bedside, curling and uncurling his hands, uncertain as to how he should proceed. Questions flooded his mind, but each query sounded fretful and caring and entirely unsuitable for the future king of Camelot. And then there was the issue of Merlin's disappearance. He yearned to discover the truth about the wound's infliction, to seek out his manservant's assailant and ensure that he was brought to justice. Whether it was done before the royal court of Camelot or upon the edge of Arthur's sword, the prince cared not. Yet was it too soon to broach the subject? Merlin was far from well, and the horrors of his ordeal would still be fresh; an open wound. Was it wise to put strain on him in his weakened state? No. This was a conversation for another time. Tomorrow, perhaps.

Eying the younger man's pale features, he cleared his throat again. "Are you alright?"

So perhaps he hadn't quite achieved the air of disinterest he'd been aiming for. Nevertheless, it would suffice.

"You mean aside from feeling like I've just been mauled by an Afanc?" Merlin pulled a face. "Never been better."

"Well, look at it this way," Arthur said, feigning exuberance, "you won't have to scrub floors or polish armour for at least a week."

The cerulean eyes widened in surprise. "A _week_?"

"Of course, if you were missing it dreadfully, I would allow you to return to work early."

"Oh, no need to worry about me, sire," Merlin replied sincerely, though his eyes shone with a light newly rekindled. "I'm sure I'll make do somehow. Although," he added, after a moment's pause, "it's debatable whether or not you'll be able to survive a whole week without me."

Arthur shook his head amusedly. "Because I'm so much safer when I'm being protected by a lumbering nitwit with the sword skills of a blind maiden."

"That wasn't very nice."

The prince rolled his eyes. "You're such a girl, Merlin."

Now _that_ had been uncalled for. The customary retort had passed his lips before his fatigued mind had fully registered the words. Gods, could he get nothing right today? Talk about kicking a man while he was down.

However, if Merlin had taken offence he didn't show it. On the contrary, the corner of his lax mouth twitched upwards in another familiar half-smirk, a spark of his usual impertinence flashing in his dull eyes for the briefest of moments. "Better a girl than an arse, _sire_."

"Merlin..." Arthur felt his face break into the first genuine smile he'd worn in days. With a heavy sigh, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in the chair. "You're hopeless."

"Mm," the younger man agreed, staring up sleepily at the red canopy above him. Then his brow creased. "This isn't..._your_ bed, is it?"

"No. We're Sir Gildor's chambers." Heavens, his voice sounded so..._warm_. Now that just wouldn't do. Clearing his throat again, he glanced away and continued more briskly, "It would have been impractical for you to have stayed in my room; my father would have discovered you."

Merlin's frown deepened. "If I'm in Sir Gildor's bed, where will he sleep?"

Arthur blinked, momentarily stumped. In all honesty, the thought hadn't previously occurred to him. When Merlin had collapsed, his primary concern had been the wellbeing of his ailing manservant and all else – including his own father's health, now that he thought about it – had been pushed to the side thereafter. But trust Merlin to think of another before himself, even when he lay stricken and fevered. The altruistic fool.

"He'll be taking rest in his brother's chambers, I imagine," he answered confidently, and made a mental note ascertain the knight's true whereabouts before the evening was through; he had to reassure himself that Gildor had indeed found suitable accommodation, for one good turn deserved another. "Or perhaps in the guard's barracks. He'll be all right."

"I shouldn't be here," Merlin argued softly, his weak tone laced with guilt. "This isn't right."

He shifted beneath the coverlet, wincing as he tried to rise from the mattress. His head and shoulders barely made it three inches off the pillow before his face had begun to redden with the strain of it. Worried that his manservant would reopen the knife wound in his effort to rise, Arthur leaned down and pressed a gently restraining hand against the slighter man's collarbone. He could feel the rapid _thuddunk_ of Merlin's heart through the overly warm flesh.

"Lie still," he ordered softly. "You aren't going anywhere without Gaius' consent. If he deems you well enough, I can have you transferred back to your own room tomorrow."

"But-"

"I'm sorry," Arthur interrupted, loudly and ostentatiously, "did I give you reason to believe that the matter was negotiable?"

Defeated, Merlin sighed and averted his gaze, squirming uncomfortably as his wound continued to pain him. The prince watched him warily.

"What is it?"

The younger man grimaced, eyes closed. "Nothing, it just burns a little. I'll be all right."

Arthur grabbed Gaius' tonic from the bedside dresser and, moving over to the table near the fireplace, partially filled a goblet with water. Glancing periodically at his manservant, he added the dark liquid from the small glass vial, carefully swirling the goblet around to mix its contents as he returned to the bedside. Sliding one hand beneath Merlin's messy locks, he raised the younger man's head from the pillow and pressed the rim of the goblet to his lips.

"Drink this," he ordered briskly. "It'll help."

Merlin made a face at the unpleasant taste, but swallowed the tonic obediently. "That," he said, as Arthur set the empty goblet aside, "was vile."

"I'll pass on the compliment to Gaius."

"Mm," Merlin grunted, eyes squeezed tightly shut as he tried to breathe through another twinge. "You do that."

A long silence passed between them, and Arthur briefly wondered whether his manservant had fallen asleep already, but that thought was soon dispelled as Merlin opened his eyes again and gazed blearily up at the canopy. Knowing that matters of the state would keep him occupied in the morning, the prince hardened his resolve to get the difficult part over with while he could still utilise the uncommon sense of guilt in his chest. If he left it until the next day, his pride would regain its previous strength and he would never succeed.

Raising his chin determinedly, Arthur cleared his throat again. "I've been thinking-"

"Ooh, careful."

The prince resisted the urge to clout his manservant upside the head, reminding himself that Merlin's fever (combined with whatever tonic he had slipped into the man's drink) would be relaxing his inhibitions and dulling his mind with greater success than even the headiest of wines. Choosing to let the remark slide – for now, anyway – he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair.

"I've been thinking," he continued, "back to that last conversation you and I shared. I realise now that, _perhaps_, I was a little too hard on you."

Merlin's left eyebrow ascended enquiringly. "Really?"

"I called you a useless lump." Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, wondering why the thoughts that had consumed him these past ten hours were so terribly difficult to put into words. "Which, upon reflection, may have been unfair. You're not _entirely_ useless, despite your apparent lack of wit. So I was..._wrong_...to insult you. I'll try not to let it happen again."

The other eyebrow rose to join its partner. "Did you just apologise to me?"

"No," Arthur scoffed, taking a gulp of too-warm wine from the goblet he'd left near the candles.

"That was definitely an apology," Merlin pressed, grinning sleepily.

"No, it wasn't."

"It was."

He snorted and glanced away, shaking his head. "You're delirious."

"I'm not the one whose ears are turning red."

The prince frowned, contemplating going back on his newly established _"don't hit Merlin when he's bedridden"_ rule. "Drop it. And go to sleep."

"Drop what?"

"Merlin."

Eyelids drooping even further, the younger man flashed a brief, half-hearted smile. "Are you admitting that there's something to drop?"

"_Merlin._"

The younger man yawned widely, his jaw cracking, and settled back against the pillows with a tired smile. "I know, I know. 'Go to sleep.'"

And mere moments later, that's exactly what he did. Arthur released a long, weary sigh and rubbed at his aching eyes. Why was dealing with Merlin always so physically and mentally draining? Even riding off into the Darkening Woods and scaling a sheer rock face in search of an antidote to cure his ailing manservant hadn't been this exhausting. Although back then, he supposed, his actions had been fuelled by a fierce determination to keep Merlin alive; a need repay the life debt that he owed the selfless oaf. But this time he was too late to be of any use; his servant was already on the mend. There was nothing Arthur could physically _do_ to aid his recovery, no outlet he could utilise to channel his fear and concern and frustration. The strain of his raging emotions had left him utterly depleted.

Dragging a hand slowly down his face, he propped his feet up on the edge of the mattress beside his manservant's shins and tried to get comfortable. If maintaining a bedside vigil was all that he could offer Merlin in the way of support, then that was what he planned to do.

Sleep be damned.

o~O~o

The guards uncrossed their spears and moved aside as he approached the throne room. Acknowledging their low bows with a brief nod, he pushed his weight against the heavy oaken doors and strode into the cavernous hall beyond. The long wooden table, which ran nearly the length of the room, was littered with yellowed scrolls and maps and discarded sheets of parchment. A dozen or more noblemen - most of them wizened members of the royal council - clustered about it, their low chatter creating a constant, buzzing background noise.

Within the throng, he spotted the taller figures of Gildor and Leon, who were deep in conversation with Arthur's old mentor, Sir Rothwyn. To an unfamiliar eye, the ancient knight of Camelot appeared weathered and frail, but the host knew that the hand holding the tall quill was ever steady and that the aged bones still retained their old strength. The elderly man did not rely upon a crutch or staff to aid his step, nor had his sharp eyes lost their focus over the many summers. It was a common jest among the younger knights that Rothwyn had discovered the secret to immortality. The king himself held the man in high regard, for his council and wisdom were a great asset in times of trial. Rothwyn would die a hero, even if he passed away during his sleep. That was the kind of respect Arthur strived for. To be loved and admired by all even at the very end. He was not naive enough to believe that his father would be esteemed in the same way. Uther had made far too many enemies through actions past and present.

Arthur drew his gaze away from the knights and sought out the king's face. He spied him near the head of the table, seated in an elaborately carved wooden chair, his brow pinched in its customary frown as a council member gestured towards the parchment in front of him. The prince waited for a moment, hoping to catch Uther's eye, but the noise was such that none present had even noticed his entrance. Smoothing a hand through his hair and hoping that changing his tunic and washing his face had made him look suitably presentable, he cleared his throat loudly.

"You wanted to see me, Father."

Uther glanced up from the manuscript before him and smiled briefly. "Ah, Arthur." He pushed the scroll away and waved a hand towards the assembled men, who had stilled their conversation out of respect. "You are dismissed. We will reconvene at noon."

With much bowing and rustling of parchment, the council members glided past the prince in a flutter of voluminous robes. The younger knights were more reserved, waiting until Sir Rothwyn had risen from his seat before bowing to the king and departing slowly. On their way to the door, the younger of the three caught Arthur's eye briefly, and Sir Leon almost paused in his long stride as his brow creased and something akin to concern alighted in his eyes. But there was no time to question it, for a moment later the men were gone and the sound of the doors closing behind them echoed loudly in the sudden stillness of the room.

"How does your leg fair?" Arthur inquired, pausing at the far end of the table.

"Better, thank you," the king replied, beckoning him closer and rising slowly from his chair. "The wound was shallow and clean; I barely feel it at all."

Arthur smiled and approached him at a measured pace, blinking forcefully to dispel the incessant stinging from his weary eyes.

"I have excellent news," Uther announced with unusual vigour, clasping him warmly by both shoulders. "The damage to the lower town is not as extensive as we initially presumed. It will take time and effort, but the people should be able to salvage what they need in order to rebuild their livelihoods."

"I'm glad to hear it," Arthur replied dutifully, trying to sound genuinely pleased despite his inability to think about anything other than his manservant. "Do we yet know the death toll?"

He tried to focus on his father's answer, but again found his mind drifting. Exhaustion had settled like a heavy blanket around his thoughts and he found there was a great deal he could no longer control; his attention span being one of them. It had been a long night. For eight hours he had sat at the bedside, dozing off and on despite his determination to stay awake. Merlin's fever had finally broken with the coming of the dawn, and Arthur had allowed himself to give into his fatigue and sleep deeply for a short while. Then Guinevere had come to fetch him with a message from the king, and any chance of a few hours' rest had flown straight out of the window. After he had hastily wolfed down a cold breakfast – he couldn't actually remember chewing – he had returned to his own chambers to wash and change before making his way to the throne room.

Gods, he was _tired._

"Arthur? Are you quite well?"

With a start, his wondering gaze snapped back to his father's frowning face, mere inches away from his own. Nodding jerkily, he took a step back. "Forgive me. I...I didn't sleep well last night."

"You do look unusually tired." Uther poured himself a goblet of wine from the silver flagon in the centre of the long table, shooting his only son a concerned glance. "Perhaps you should go and see Gaius."

"I'm not ill," Arthur protested softly. He bit his lip, contemplating leaving it at that, but eventually gave into the truth. "It's my manservant."

Uther regained his seat, his eyes already scanning another manuscript. "The boy?" he asked, his tone only mildly interested. "What about him?"

Arthur quashed the sudden surge of annoyance, convincing himself that there had been _nothing_ derogatory about his father's chosen term. In many ways, Merlin _was_ still a boy. But the prince still thought the title belittling. Arthur was only a few years older himself, after all.

"Merlin was injured...during the battle," he said, deciding that a half-truth was the easiest thing to stick to if he wasn't prepared to explain the situation in full. "A knife wound in the back. He was in a bad way last night."

The king took up the quill from the glass inkwell and fluidly signed his name at the base of the parchment. "If you had required another servant, you need only have asked."

The ease with which his father dismissed the life of a lower man still shook him. Is that what power and control did to you? Did you become so desensitized that the loss of life no longer mattered to you? As a knight, Arthur faced death on a weekly basis, and every time he lost a man he felt it like a physical blow to his chest. It had eased only marginally over the years, and Arthur prayed that it would never fade entirely. He needed to feel _something_ in connection to the weight of mortality. He would likely go mad without it.

"I didn't _need_ another servant," Arthur replied icily, now giving his annoyance a free reign. There were times when he truly despised his father, and this was one of them. It probably didn't help that the king's summons had interrupted what would have been a truly wonderful nap.

Uther glanced up again, an eyebrow raised. "I don't follow. What, then, was the issue?"

Rubbing at his face in agitation, the prince averted his gaze. "It doesn't matter." His hands curled into tight fists behind his back. "Is that all, Father?"

"Not quite. I know that you are weary and eager to rest, but there is something you must do for me first."

Arthur nodded briskly. "Of course."

"I want you to review the notes Rothwyn made during this morning's council meeting," Uther said, waving a hand towards a neat stack of parchment. "When you are king, you will need to be aware of the importance of order and control in the aftermath of a battle. Even after victory, a realm can still come to ruin if its king does not tend to the wounds of his kingdom."

Wounds. _Merlin_.

Fie, he was awful at this.

o~O~o

Merlin pressed his bruised shoulders against the familiar wooden headboard, relieved to be back in his own bed. Nodding his thanks to the guards as they left the room, he pulled the blankets closer about him with a deep sigh. Leaning his head back and closed his eyes, finally at ease now that he was away from the hustle and bustle of the main castle, he allowed his tensed muscles to relax.

"Better?"

Opening an eye, he glanced towards the door and smiled tiredly at his guardian. "Definitely."

"I thought you might like something to eat." Moving to sit down on the mattress, Gaius carefully placed a bowl of hot soup on the bedside table. "If you manage to finish that, you can try eating something a little more solid later on. But don't force yourself. Your body has been under a lot of strain these past few days."

"I feel fine," Merlin murmured, reaching over with a wince to pick up the bowl. "Tired and a little sore, perhaps, but nothing more."

Gaius eyed him for a long moment. "Yes, about that."

He raised the spoon to his lips and took a sip of the hot liquid, studying the older man quizzically. "What?"

"Merlin, Kilgarrah's magic has allowed you to recover from your wound swiftly, but you must remember that this isn't the norm. Arthur won't be expecting you to have regained your health so quickly. It would be _unwise_ to further arouse his suspicions. It would be prudent, therefore, not to let on just how greatly your condition has improved."

"So...you want me to pretend?" Merlin asked hopefully.

"Since the only other alternative is that I give you something to _make_ you unwell-" Gaius began.

"No, that's quite all right," his ward said hurriedly. "I can be convincing."

Gaius smiled fondly, knowingly. "Oh, I'm certain you can." He reached out and gently squeezed the nape of Merlin's neck, his eyes kind. "It's good to see you smiling again, my boy. You gave me quite a turn yesterday."

Merlin blushed and lowered his gaze, stirring the soup slowly. "I'm sorry. Believe me, I've learnt from my mistakes. This isn't an experience I'm eager to repeat. Besides, it's over now."

"But," Gaius said, holding up an index finger, "there is one thing that still remains incomplete; something rather important." At his ward's blank expression, he elaborated, "The small matter of explaining just _how_ you acquired that 'knife wound' in the first place."

Merlin froze, the spoon centimetres from his open lips, and a cold sense of dread trickled sickeningly down into his stomach. "Ah."

"'Ah' indeed. I think I'll leave you to it." Gaius stood slowly, still smiling. "Enjoy the soup."

As the door closed behind the physician, Merlin set his bowl back on the bedside table and pushed it over to the opposite side, his appetite gone. There were more pressing matters at hand. He had to formulate a wholly convincing lie that would explain both his sudden disappearance and the matter of his wound's infliction. It would not be a simple task. The effort it had taken to spin the delicate web of lies that helped conceal his many secrets simply _quailed _in comparison. Arthur's trust in him, perhaps his very destiny, were dependent on his ability to weave a suitable cover story. He did not dare think of the consequences if he failed_._

Was it too late, he wondered, to feign amnesia?

* * *

**_The next (and last) chapter should hopefully be posted by Friday. I'm contemplating adding an epilogue, but that will depend entirely on how the final instalment turns out. Sometimes an epilogue tips the balance, other times it completes the puzzle. I guess we'll just have to wait and see._**

**_Deducing the hour by the angle of the sun/the position of the stars is an ancient method that dates back to before medieval times, so I figured it would be appropriate in to use in a mythological setting of that period. For obvious reasons, they didn't own clocks back then. Some were better at it than others, because the mental arithmetic required (addition and subtraction, nothing more) meant that a number of poorer, uneducated folk of a kingdom learned to read the hour by rough estimation. However, this WAS a skill passed down from father to son (yes, sorry ladies, we were considered too stupid to understand simple subtractions), so the majority of peasant-class citizens would have this skill. Generally, in the castle, a small group of people would be employed to watch the sun/stars and ring the bell in the citadel when the hour struck (or roughly thereabouts, because it wasn't the most accurate of practices). The number of bells would signify the hour - a tradition that has lasted to this very day, even though we now have clocks with numbers on their faces. Isn't that fascinating?_**

**_And if you're wondering what "Fie" means, consider it the medieval equivalent of "oh sh**". There aren't many established 'swear words' for that time period (at least none that were recorded in historical documents), but 'Fie' is one of the few known curses that CAN be used in a medieval/mythological setting. "By the gods" and "hell's fire" can get a little repetitive, so I did some research._**

**_Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed the chapter, clicking the 'review' button is a great way of letting me know. ;)_**

**_Have a wonderful week, readers!_**

**_XXX_**


	5. Chapter 5

**_At long last, I return. Sorry for the brief absence, I was rather unwell last week and didn't really feel up to writing/editing/posting anything, and this week so far as been chock-a-block with uni work. Spiffing. The good news is, the chapter's finally here. :)_**

**_The bad news is, there's only an epilogue left after this. *sigh* Sad times._**

**_Thank you for the wonderful feedback, and double cookies go to the anonymous reviewers because they didn't get a personal reply. I loved your comments just as much as the others!_**

* * *

Placing his feet shoulder-width apart and bracing his hands against the wooden beam overheard, he leaned in closer so that they stood nose to nose.

"I know of your dishonesty, Merlin. Neither one of us is leaving this room until the matter has been resolved, do you understand? This isn't a request. I'm _ordering_ you to tell me the truth." Arthur pulled away abruptly, running a hand through his hair and frowning. "No, I can't speak to him like that. I'm beginning to sound like my father. Perhaps...perhaps I should say 'please'? No. No, that would be overcompensating." He spun back around again. "What do you think? Too forceful?"

His companion regarded him with an expression of thinly veiled incredulity.

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest and sighed in acceptance. Hengroen was right. It was still too blunt, too unfeeling. Only a couple of days had passed since Merlin's collapse; the young man had yet to recover from his wounds, both physically and mentally. Demanding answers with such vigour would surely get him nowhere. So what was he to do? He refused to coddle the oaf with warm words and gentle reassurances - he was the crown prince of Camelot! By all rights he should have ceased to care about the welfare of his manservant the moment it became apparent that Merlin would survive. And although he was willing to acknowledge that perhaps Merlin meant more to him than just a serving boy, there were certain boundaries he would not cross. They were both grown men, for gods' sakes.

Was there no medium between the two? There had to be a way to broach the subject without coming across as brash and unsympathetic? Or, heaven forbid, as a soft hearted daisy-petal of a man? And _fie_, when had he begun to care so much about his manservant's feelings? He was _royalty_; Merlin was an _idiot_. The situation was ridiculous.

"Looks like I'm in a spot of bother, old friend."

Hengroen snorted and turned away to take a long, slow drink. Arthur nodded glumly. It was true; trouble was hardly an uncommon guest. He frequented this place in search of comfort and guidance, as not a week seemed to pass by without _some_ form of catastrophe careening into his path. One particular disaster had brought him here at least a dozen times – indeed, it had done so again today. The muttonhead.

"I dislike the idea of forcing him to speak of his ordeal against his will. There are episodes from my own past that I have kept hidden; memories I cannot and _will_ not share, even with you. Some stones are best left unturned." Arthur shook his head again, frowning. "But what if his attacker resides within Camelot's walls? He could still be in danger. I cannot ensure the safety and security of others if a killer is on the loose." He sighed heavily, raking a hand through his fringe. "For the greater good, I _need_ to know the truth. Lives could depend upon it. You understand that, don't you? It must be done."

The dark eyes glanced up at him kindly, knowingly. Arthur sighed again and looked away, turning to lean his hip against the wooden pillar beside him as he absently surveyed the room. Sunlight streamed in through the wide doorway, dust drifting lazily in its fractured yellow beams. The bright glow created the very pretence of a warm summer's day; but the prince's hands still tingled from the bite of the bitter wind outside, and even indoors his breath rose in a faint, swirling white mist. Rubbing his cold fingers together briefly, Arthur allowed his eyes to coast upwards until he was staring into the rafters of the spacious room.

He smiled humourlessly. "One would think him cursed, the way that danger clings to him." He paused to dwell seriously on the thought. "Perhaps that isn't as ridiculous a suggestion as it sounds."

A bell tolled faintly in the distance, striking thrice before falling silent. With a sigh, Arthur turned back to face his comrade, leaning the other hip against the pillar and reaching out to clap Hengroen warmly on the shoulder. "Well, I suppose there's nothing for it, old friend." He dragged a hand down his face wearily. "Gods, that man will be the death of me."

Hengroen glanced his way briefly before turning his attention back to his meal. The prince smirked.

"I know, I know. That's what I always say." He shook his head, brushing a smudge of dirt from the sleeve of his red tunic. "Life has always been easy for you, hasn't it?"

Grunting in protest as he slowly chewed on his dinner, Hengroen prodded Arthur firmly in the ribs.

The prince grinned and pushed him away. "All right, so I may have dragged you into a few troublesome situations during my childhood. But just look at you now! Living the life of luxury, waited on by half a dozen servants; permitted the freedom to sleep and eat whenever you see fit with no prior obligations, no weighted expectations hanging over you like...like-" He sighed heavily and kicked at the base of the pillar with his right heel. "Oh, I don't know. Sometimes I think it would be easier if I were a farmer or...or a cobbler," his gaze grew distant, his tone longing, "or a blacksmith."

Hengroen snorted again, nudging him more forcefully. The prince grinned, patting his friend's shoulder. "What, bored of me already? Here I am, pouring my heart out, and all you can think about is your stomach. You daft old thing. I'm glad to know I mean so much to you."

The horse stomped loudly and butted his head against Arthur's chest.

With a low chuckle, he untied the drawstrings of his belt pouch and produced half an apple. The warm leather had caused the inner flesh to brown a little, but the crinkled skin seemed undamaged. Hengroen eagerly moved towards it, straining against the single length of rope that spanned the opening to his stable, grunting in excitement.

"What?" he held the apple aloft, out of the animal's reach, and laughed as the once-powerful steed let out a frustrated whinny. "Oh, is this what you want? Are you sure?"

His old mount shifted from foot to foot agitatedly, the eager eyes fixed in apparent desperation on the proffered treat.

Arthur sighed exaggeratedly and lowered his arm. "Oh, very well. Take it if you must."

Hengroen crunched vociferously on the apple, ignoring Arthur's attempts to scratch at his favourite spot at the base of his neck. Even after the last morsel had been located on the hay-strewn floor and keenly consumed, the horse refused to acknowledge his master's presence. Arthur sighed again, placing a hand either side of the beast's face and stroking the course hair with his thumbs.

"All right, I'm sorry. I was wrong to taunt you so." He brushed aside the thick, dark fringe and firmly rubbed his knuckles against Hengroen's forehead. "Forgive me?"

With a long-suffering snort, the horse nudged him in the chest, catching the lapel of his tunic between his lips and tugging playfully. Arthur grinned and pushed the velvety snout away, brushing a hand down the broad, smooth neck. Once satisfied that his apology had been accepted, he gave the proud horse one final caress and bid him farewell, promising to return the next day with another apple.

His spirits were high as he left the stables, but by the time he had made it back to the main castle courtyard the feeling of impending doom had returned. Gods, why was it so hard to talk to Merlin _about_ Merlin? Heaven knows how many times he had ranted and lectured with the younger man as his sole addressee. On occasion, he had even revealed his innermost feelings, the closely guarded secrets that had been kept locked away within him – clandestine thoughts of his feelings for Gwen, or of the fearful weight of his impending sovereignty. He had somehow failed acknowledge the fact before, but the past spoke for itself; Merlin was his confidant. Words always seemed to flow so freely when he spoke to his servant. The younger man's innocence, honesty and ingenuousness inspired a certain kinship between them; a bond of trust that Arthur had never felt with another man of his age. Why, then, did the forthcoming conversation fill him with dread? Had he not just enacted the very situation with Hengroen? Opening up to his old mount had been simple enough.

As he strode towards the guarded stairwell that lead to the south tower – which housed the court physician's chambers, amongst others – Arthur curled his hands into fists, his frustration brimming.

If Merlin were a horse, all his problems would be solved.

o~O~o

He had delayed the inevitable long enough. How many hours had it been since his arrival?

He had sat in silence at his manservant's bedside for a good thirty minutes, deep in thought, before Gaius had returned from his duties and gently roused his ward. Hesitant to interrogate the pale and groggy man so soon after awakening, Arthur had struck up a pointless conversation about anything and everything that came to mind, endeavouring all the while to muster up the nerve to go ahead with his plan.

Merlin had visibly perked up after a dose of Gaius' tonic, but had only been able to pick at the meal that his mentor had brought him. As the hour of sunset neared and the light began to wane, Arthur found his list of informal topics running thin, and the awkward silences between them had begun to lengthen.

A temporary distraction arrived in the form of Gaius, who had come to light the candles and take away the dishes. With a smile, he pressed a warm goblet into Arthur's hand and bid them farewell, murmuring something about checking up one of his patients in the lower town. As the door clicked shut, Arthur lowered his gaze to the steaming beverage. He felt a small, unbidden smile tug gently at his mouth. Raising the goblet to his lips, he inhaled the familiar scent with relish before taking a tentative sip. It was hot and sweet, but not overly so. Just as he remembered it.

"What?" Merlin was gazing at him in weary curiosity, an eyebrow raised.

Arthur shook his head. "Nothing." He took another sip, savouring the long-forgotten taste. "Gaius...he used to give this to me as a child. Warm milk and honey. I haven't had it in years."

What he didn't tell Merlin was that it wasn't the drink itself that made him smile; it was the memories carried with it. The tales of adventure and mystery told by the fireside on a winter's eve, when duty or grief – so often intermingled that he had rarely bothered to distinguish between the two – had kept his own father cold, distant and bad tempered. Although it had been Uther's attention that he had craved, Gaius had made a worthy substitute on those cold, lonely nights.

"I'll have to keep that in mind the next time you're angry with me. Haven't seen you smile like that in days."

Growing sombre once more, Arthur set the drink aside and leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees and interlocking his fingers. "Merlin...there's something we need to discuss."

His face remained impassive, but Arthur could swear he saw a flicker of fear in Merlin's eyes, albeit for the smallest measure of a second. "Really? What's that?"

"Oh, come _on_," Arthur sighed impatiently, finding greater confidence in a tone that was more emblematic of his birthright. "Surely you must know."

Merlin gave him a blank look.

"About your _wound_," he pressed, watching carefully for any sign of recognition. And yes, there it was; Merlin's gaze had flickered nervously to the side and his pattern of breathing had changed.

Then his manservant smiled with forced gaiety. "Actually, it's a lot better than it was yesterday. No need to worry."

To hell with this delicate approach, the man was _infuriating_!

With a soft huff of frustration, Arthur stood abruptly and turned away, pacing the length of the tiny room, mustering up the strength of will to press on with greater force. It was clear that Merlin wasn't comfortable discussing the subject – if he gave a straight answer before the evening was through, that in itself would be a miracle. And Arthur's current technique seemed to be failing rather spectacularly.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, he clasped his hands behind his back and spun smoothly around to face the bed. "Gaius told me something interesting the other day in Sir Gildor's chambers," he said, with exaggerated decorum. "Do you know what it was?"

Merlin shook his head, his face the picture of innocence. "Haven't a clue. I was out cold."

"He said," Arthur continued, beginning a painstakingly slow stroll around the small chamber, "that the wound couldn't have been inflicted during the battle. That it was at _least_ two days old."

"Well...then he must have been mistaken."

Arthur came to a stop at the far left-hand wall and leaned his hip against it, arms crossed over his chest. "Gaius doesn't make mistakes."

"There's always a first time for everything," Merlin said breezily, his gaze averted and his fingers fumbling clumsily with the loose threads along the edge of his blanket. "I mean, you can't blame the man; he was under a lot of pressure at the time. But these things happen."

"_Enough, _Merlin." Arthur's frown had deepened, and there was a note of finality in his voice that brooked no argument. "I will not abide being lied to."

His manservant visibly sagged, his hands stilling and releasing the maltreated blanket. Gone was the false bravado, and in its stead came an almost tangible sense of trepidation. As the prince watched, Merlin began to gnaw on his ever-abused bottom lip, and he felt a faint flutter of unease in his gut. His visit to the stables had given him the willpower to ask the wretched question, but was he truly prepared for the gravity of the truth? Arthur was no green, naive fledgling of a soldier. He had witnessed atrocities that would turn a commoner's stomach. He knew all too well of the cold, callous malevolence that drove men to murder and pillage and burn in the outer villages; of the darkness within their hearts that fed off the fear and desolation of others, uncaring and insensate. Merlin had been attacked by such a man.

Arthur shuddered, sickened at the thought, and drew his gaze back up to study his manservant. Taking in the nervous, fumbling fingers and thin-lipped mouth, he sighed softly. This was going to take a while. Returning to the bedside, he angled the rickety wooden chair so that he could face Merlin more directly, but scooted it a little further away from the mattress so as to avoid looking overly intimidating.

"Start simple," he said, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back in his seat, arms folded. "Three days ago, you were nowhere to be found. You never showed up for work in the morning." He frowned, momentarily recalling his anger and frustration at sleeping in late and consequently ruining his training schedule, all because a certain _someone_ had failed to awaken him. That day, it seemed, had been an all-round disaster. "Where were you?"

Merlin glanced up briefly, still gnawing on his lip, before dropping his gaze again. His cheeks grew flushed. "I was...out. In the forest. I left at dawn so that I'd be able to make it back before Gaius woke up."

"So you left your chambers at dawn?" Arthur repeated, trying hard to keep his tone from becoming accusatory. "Why, then, did Gaius tell me you hadn't returned home the previous evening?"

"What? No, no, I did," the younger man insisted, his eyes earnest. "I was-...by the time I got home, Gaius was already asleep. It was fairly late. You didn't retire to bed until it was nearly midnight, remember?"

Arthur rubbed his chin absently. Four nights past...oh, it seemed so very long ago now. Too much had happened since then, a lifetime of troubles. But Merlin's explanation sounded plausible. Of late, he had found himself lengthening his manservant's working hours during the evening; not out of cruelty or spite, but simply in search of company. Merlin could be a right idiot on occasion, but Arthur found that the crushing burden of his responsibilities would lighten a little if he had someone to talk to – and taunt – at the end of the day. Someone who wouldn't be mortally offended by his words, who wouldn't tiptoe around him with honeyed words and discuss the weather, who didn't have his father's ear, and who wasn't as self-absorbed and bad tempered as he himself was. To put it bluntly, he _enjoyed_ Merlin's company, provided the oaf didn't decide to do something stupid. So he could quite easily believe that he'd detained the younger man well into the night. Considering the stress and worry of his father's apparent madness, he had likely needed an outlet.

"So you left at dawn and rode into the forest?"

"Walked," Merlin corrected quickly. At his master's questioning look, he swallowed and cleared his throat. "Gaius' horse doesn't like me, and I wasn't about to steal one from the stables without permission."

A fair point. "So you walked into the forest. Why?"

Merlin shifted uncomfortably. "You can't tell Gaius."

"What?"

"Gaius," his manservant repeated, "he mustn't hear of this. He'd only place the blame on himself." At Arthur's nod, he continued, "I went looking for a rare herb. I knew our supply was running low, so I thought I'd save him the journey." He lowered his gaze to stare at his lap, apparently lost in memory. "It was still dark when I set off. And cold. I kept to the road at first - I didn't trust my footing in the twilight - but once dawn had broken, I strayed from the path and travelled deeper into the woods. I've walked it a hundred times before with Gaius, I thought I was safe. But I...there were..."

Arthur allowed the silence to hang for several seconds before clearing his throat softly. "Who attacked you?"

The nervous fingers again began to fumble with the frayed edge of the blanket. When he spoke again his voice was so faint it was barely audible. "Bandits."

Cold fear pooled in Arthur's stomach. "How many?"

"Three. Maybe four." Merlin shrugged, twisting a thread around his finger and keeping his gaze averted. "I was gathering herbs when it happened. I heard a noise. I looked back an'...there was this man behind me. Something about his eyes, the way he looked at me; it made my skin crawl. So I turned to run. He tried to grab me and managed to get hold of my herb pouch, so I twisted and pulled away. He landed a blow just before the strap broke. And then I legged it. I could hear him following me; he was shouting to the others. And it hurt to run, but I couldn't stop. I was terrified." The younger man laughed bitterly, humourlessly, shaking his head. "It's not exactly a tale of valour and dignity, is it?"

"You did what you had to," the prince replied, his voice hoarse from the shock of it all. Hearing the true account from Merlin's lips made the disturbing images seem so _vivid_. "You had no weapons, no backup. Fighting them would have been foolish. You were right to flee."

"I thought I was going to die," Merlin admitted, his eyes distant. "Unaided and unlooked for. To be discovered mutilated and rotting by an innocent passerby a few weeks from now. Such a pointless way to die. Not...not saving anyone, not accomplishing some great deed. Just...bound and helpless and alone."

"Bound?" Arthur repeated, the discomfort spiking in his chest.

Merlin looked at him with a brief expression of surprise, then glanced away again and shook his head. "No, um...I just figured they would tie me up if they captured me. Which they almost did." He cleared his throat, blinking heavily. "If I hadn't fallen down the embankment, I would never have made it back. The bushes were tall and dense at the bottom, and clumped closely together. They hid me perfectly. The bandits ran straight past. It was sheer dumb luck that I made it back alive; nothing more."

Arthur sat forward in his seat. "And the wound?"

"I thought the blow had been dealt with his fist. I had imagined the blade of a knife to pierce more sharply." His manservant laughed again, softly. "I didn't even notice it was bleeding until the back of my shirt had adhered itself to my skin. I lay on my front in the foliage for hours, too afraid to return to the open in case the bandits had lingered nearby. I admit I was a coward. But it kept me alive."

"That wasn't cowardice," Arthur replied absently, brushing a hand back and forth over the lower half of his face as he reached for his drink. "It was intelligence. Had you come out of hiding too soon, they would have captured you. Bandits don't easily give up on their prey." Realising that Merlin was staring at him, he cleared his throat and glanced away. "So, when did you begin to head back towards the castle?"

"Mid afternoon perhaps, perhaps. It's hard to say; I think I may have fallen asleep. But I found that in my haste to flee the attackers, I had lost my bearings entirely. I don't know how many miles I travelled before I reached the road and realised that I had been heading in the wrong direction. I didn't return through the castle gates until well after sundown."

The prince shook his head slowly, gulping down the rest of his warm beverage. It was a relief to know that the bandits hadn't inflicted any further injuries on the younger man, be they of the body or the mind. But the image of his stupid, bumbling, innocent servant fleeing for his life, alone and unaided, through a dimly lit forest...the thought was horrendous. Why had it taken so long for the truth of the matter to reach his ears?

He frowned and released a long sigh of mingled emotions, rubbing a hand down his face. "I understand the reason for your absence that day, and I pardon you for it. But Merlin," he stood up abruptly, turning away in frustration and striding the length of the room, "why in _hell's name_ didn't you _tell_ me?"

The younger man looked genuinely surprised at the question. "I didn't know it was so serious. It had stopped bleeding by the time I returned to the castle. I didn't think it necessary to inform you."

"And therein lies the problem," Arthur retorted sharply, turning back to point an accusing finger at his manservant. "You didn't _think_!"

"Arthur, I...I'm sorry."

For some reason, that angered him more. Because a part of him couldn't bear to hear the younger man apologise when he was as much to blame for the whole mess as Merlin was. There had to have been signs. Arthur had been too distracted, too focused on everything else happening around him and too busy _shouting_ at Merlin to actually stop and look at him properly. The man had been _stabbed_. It had to have shown. Arthur had lived amongst wounded men before; he knew how to identify the fit from the injured by the ease of their gait, the pallor of their skin, the rigidity of their posture. Why hadn't he _seen_ something?

He thumped the wall once, hard. The throbbing pain in his knuckles helped to calm the turmoil of emotions within him. Shaking out his bruised appendage, he strode swiftly to the bedside and leaned in close.

"Listen to me closely, Merlin," he said, his voice low and hard. "You will _never_ keep an injury like this to yourself again. Give me your word."

Merlin nodded, swallowing nervously. "I promise."

"Good." Arthur straightened. "Despite what you may think, I don't want you dead. I'll double the forest patrols and send out a warning to the merchants in the lower towns. It won't stop them from travelling through the forest, but it will allow them to take suitable precautions in order to better defend themselves against the bandits. And Merlin? I'm glad you're all right." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I want to see you back at work in five days' time. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sire."

"Good." He opened the door, pausing briefly, fighting an internal battle between his pride and his conscience. _Apologise to him. __**Apologise**_. "Merlin, I..." Unable to finish the sentence and hating himself for it, he fell silent and turned to leave.

"Arthur?" Merlin called. The prince glanced back in time to see the younger man quirk an understanding half-smile. "Me too."

Arthur swallowed past the painful lump in his throat. With a single, slow nod that conveyed everything words could not, he left his manservant's chambers, closing the door softly behind him.

o~O~o

With a heavy, shaky sigh, Merlin pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and willed his pounding heart to quieten. Arthur had bought the bare-faced lie, and his secret was safe. The ordeal was over; for now, at least.

The revelation did little to ease the guilt that now burned deep within his chest. He had lied to Arthur. _Again._

For the briefest of moments, he had yearned to reveal what had truly happened in the forest, to detail Morgana's betrayal and his own struggle to save the king from her sorcery. In the end, his sense of self-preservation had won out, but the blatant falsehood had left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth - as though the words had been foul in a physical sense. And he knew why. Every untruth, every lie he so carefully weaved, only served to pave the way to his own destruction. There would come a time when his elaborate web of deceit would come crashing down around him and Arthur would see him for who he truly was. How could he possibly expect their friendship to hold firm on that fateful day, when his ongoing pretence weakened the very foundations of their bond?

Shaking his head in frustration, he threaded his fingers through his hair and bit his lower lip, replaying the events of the past few days over and over in his mind. The feeling of self-loathing amplified.

He had accused Morgana of hardening the king's heart against the concept of magic, of condemning those who chose to wield it to a life of persecution and suffering under Uther's tight-fisted reign. But was he not doing the very same thing? If he was discovered to have been outright lying to the future king of Camelot, it would merely reinforce Uther's perception of magic. And Arthur's along with it. In a way, Merlin's betrayal was worse than that of the king's ward; he was sentencing both present and future generations to the very tyranny and oppression that he strove to eradicate.

And yet what other option was there? Simply by withholding information about his gifts, he had lied to the prince. But surely, to have told Arthur the truth from the onset would have been an exercise in self-destruction. The conceited brat of a future king he had first met would have seen him executed without so much as blinking an eye if Merlin had admitted to using magic in order to save Arthur's life. And although their friendship now ran deeper, strong enough to blur the lines between Arthur's birthright and Merlin's lowly position as a servant, the enormity of his secret seemed to overshadow that bond. There were times when he truly doubted his ability to fulfil his destiny.

"Merlin?"

Jarred out of his thoughts, hiding a wince at the consequential twinge in his lower back, he dropped his hands and glanced towards the door. It took a moment for his sight to return, the bright flashes obscuring his vision for a worryingly long moment before he could make out the blurred form of Gaius silhouetted in the doorway by the faint glow of the fire in the larger chamber beyond. He managed a smile, fiddling absently with the coverlets.

"I thought you'd left?"

"I did," the physician replied, moving towards the bed slowly and taking a seat on the edge of the mattress. "Over an hour ago."

An _hour_? Had it really been that long?

His mentor squeezed his shoulder gently. "You're still alive, I see. Do I take it, then, that Arthur was satisfied with your explanation?"

Merlin nodded glumly, rubbing at his tired and aching eyes. "He's gone to warn everyone that there's a gang of murderous bandits lying in wait within the forest."

"Well, I'm sure no harm will come of it. There's nothing wrong with undertaking a little extra vigilance. Bandits are not uncommon in Camelot; with all the wealthy travellers that pass this way, it's their prime hunting ground."

"I wish I could just tell him the truth," Merlin said morosely.

Gaius smiled in understanding. "When the time is right, you will. But you must let things take their natural course. Have patience, Merlin. What's destined to happen will take place regardless of your successes and failures. Don't worry about how your actions will affect the future; focus on the here and now."

The younger man quirked an eyebrow. "I thought you wanted me to always consider the consequences of my actions before I did something?"

Hush," the physician ordered, his tone amused. Then he sighed and straitened, tucking the blankets closer about Merlin's legs. "I cannot pretend to have all the answers, but I know that fretting over it like this isn't going to help. Sleep, however, is a failsafe remedy for such ills." He reached out to help Merlin shuffle back down the bed, laying his pillows down flat and easing Merlin onto his back. "Get some rest, my boy."

As though recognising his fatigue for the first time, a wave of exhaustion hit him and he closed his eyes, his frantic mind beginning to calm at last. He felt Gaius brush a hand through his short hair, bidding him goodnight, and then heard him blowing out the candles. It wasn't until the door clicked shut that he allowed himself to release the tension and worry that had been clinging to him since the moment he had discovered Morgana's deception. He pressed his face closer against the soft pillow and sighed heavily. _Life._

Thank the stars that he had another five days of idleness to come. He was in dire need of a break.

He only hoped Arthur didn't get eaten by a magical beast in his absence.

* * *

**_Thanks for reading! Reviews are terrific, of course. :)_**

**_As I said at the top of the page, there WILL be an epilogue. Not a long one, mind, but an epilogue all the same. I had initially intended to attach it to the end of this chapter, but the tone I chose to set seems very out of place compared with the rest of chapter 5. So it's getting its own slot._**

**_I'm not sure how soon the epilogue will be posted, I have essays and exams coming up in a week or so. But I'll do what I can. Sit tight, dear readers! :)_**

**_xxx_**

**_XXX_**


	6. Epilogue

**_*tentatively waves white flag*_**

**_H-hi. Remember me? The author promised to update two weeks ago? Well, she's finally back!_**

**_I'm so terribly sorry about the delay. There was a sudden influx of can't-be-botheredness that unfortunately affected my written creativity AND my ability to research references for my university paper. So when push came to shove, I had to cram for my essay and ditch FF for a while. Good news is, the essay is in two days ahead of schedule and I've finally managed to complete the story! Again, my sincerest apologies for keeping people waiting._**

**_And I'm sad to say that I wasn't able to reply to everyone's comments this time around. I read them all, and loved them, but I soon lost track of whose I had replied to and whose I hadn't. I assure you that they were still as much appreciated as the last batch. Cookies go to all of you this time! (And none to me.)_**

**_Here's the epilogue. :)_**

**_

* * *

_**

_Five days later..._

"You're still alive, then?"

Merlin stumbled to a halt, his heart hammering, and spun around quickly to face the speaker. Sir Gildor stood in the shadow of an alcove, arms crossed over his chest as he slouched with comfortable ease against the sandy stone. Despite the fading daylight, his blond hair and gentle features appeared illuminated in the gloom. Merlin clasped his arms by his sides and gave a stiff bow, conscious of the fact that he needed to appear only partially recovered from what Gildor would perceive as a knife wound.

"Gaius is a skilled physician, my lord," he replied, keeping his gaze averted. "I am well rested and ready to return to duty."

The knight's youthful face broke into a grin. Pushing himself away from the wall, he clasped Merlin by the shoulder. "Thank the stars. I have heard that Prince Arthur does not find the kitchen lad an adequate...replacement." His azure eyes shone with amusement. "For both Arthur's sake and the boy's, it's a good thing you were not laid abed longer than these five days. Neither would have survived the ordeal, I fear."

Calmed by the knight's openness, Merlin cracked a smile. "In that case, I'd best report to him first thing in the morning. I wouldn't want the death of Camelot's future king hanging over me - my reputation would be sullied."

Gildor's eyes widened and for one awful moment Merlin feared he had gone too far. But then the knight threw his head back and laughed - a loud, warming sound that echoed down the chilly castle corridor – and the sense of unease in his stomach dissipated as quickly as it had come. It took a few seconds for the bearded man to regain his composure, wiping the tears from his rosy cheeks as he glanced around to make sure none had heard. When he finally turned to grin at Merlin, there was an identifiable change in the way he looked upon his Sire's manservant; a certain something in his twinkling gaze. Respect, perhaps? Merlin couldn't be sure. But it warmed his heart.

"I must attend to my own duties," the knight said at last, his shoulders drooping in a sigh as he stared off into the distance. "Sir Leon and I are assessing the perimeter guards. It's a bitter night for it, though." He rubbed his gloved fingers together at the thought, the smooth leather squeaking softly. Then he returned his gaze to the manservant and smiled, clapping him on the shoulder one last time. "It gladdens me to see you so fully recovered, Merlin. No doubt we will run into each other soon enough."

Merlin nodded and smiled, bowing again. "Goodnight, my lord."

"Yes. Goodnight."

He watched the knight's retreating form until it disappeared around the corner. With a grin, Merlin spun on the spot and strode off in the opposite direction, his mood lighter than it had been all week. He was glad he had managed to persuade himself out of Gaius' chambers; the short stroll had done him the world of good. And, for the first time since the night he had left the castle in pursuit of Morgana, he felt hungry. Starving, in fact. Yet it was unlikely that Gaius would have yet returned from his rounds in the lower town, and dinner would not be ready until at least an hour after that. He couldn't possibly last that long. Perhaps he could make a short stop at the kitchens before he returned home? Maerwynn was very fond of him. The motherly cook always had a small treat to spare for the "poor dear" who had to live with Gaius as a mentor. She and the physician were old friends, so Gaius' lack of talent in the kitchen was no secret.

The old cook was a formidable woman, rotund and sharp-witted with the strength of ten men, but her heart was kind. She would no doubt scold him for having gotten himself injured during the battle, for news spread fast amongst the castle servants and his absence had been the primary topic of conversation this week, or so Gwen had informed him. The plate of honey cakes a kitchen servant had brought to him four days past had served as both a token of affection and a warning from Maerwynn that she knew of his plight and expected a visit as soon as his strength had sufficiently returned. No doubt she would call him a foolish and impulsive boy, give his ear a sharp tweak as if he were a lad of twelve, and then sit him down in front of a steaming plate of whatever she was cooking for the lords and ladies of Camelot, clicking her tongue disaprovingly at his malnourished state of appearance. Oh yes, a trip to the kitchens was definitely in order.

And while he was there, he would enquire about this kitchen boy whose actions had tormented his master so. Whoever he was, Merlin needed to thank him profusely.

o~O~o

Arthur closed his eyes, using the tips of his fingers to slowly massage his temples. It did little to lessen the pounding ache in his skull, which radiated from a central point at the back of his head and pulsed painfully with every heartbeat. Reaching back, he tentatively probed the sizeable lump that had begun to form there.

"Forgive me, sire. I'll just...yes...there. Are you alright? Of course you're not, that was a stupid question. I'm so sorry."

Oh, how he yearned for quiet. The loud sloshing of the water in his servant's pail seemed deafening as the boy scurried about the room, mop in hand, mumbling a constant litany of apologies. He shot a one-eyes glare in the direction of the sound. "For gods' sakes, Cyrus, calm down."

The mop slid from the startled lad's fumbling grasp, clattering loudly to the floor. With a pained groan, the prince shot a despairing glance heavenwards.

"Uh, s-sire?" the younger man stammered hesitantly. He visibly paled when Arthur looked his way, wringing his hands together as he shifted nervously from foot to foot. "Perhaps I should fetch Gaius?"

Arthur waved away the suggestion. "It's all right, the damage isn't permanent." The mere thought of taking one of the physician's bitter tonics conjured a foul taste in his mouth, and he reached automatically for the nearby goblet. Finding it empty, he slammed it down on the table in frustration. When this only served to worsen the ache in his skull, he dropped his head into both hands, leaning his elbows against the edge of the table. "Pour me some wine, will you? If there's any left."

Perhaps he should have omitted that last remark. _Fie_, now he'd done it.

Further upset by the reminder of his earlier gaucherie, Cyrus looked close to fainting. His hands trembled as he took up the near-empty pitcher, which clattered loudly against the rim of the goblet as he shakily poured his master a drink. It was a miracle that the remaining liquid didn't end up all over floor like the last time. Worried at the mental image of another drenched pair of boots, Arthur snatched up the goblet before Cyrus had a chance to knock is over.

The sudden movement startled him and the younger man lurched away from the table. Then time itself seemed to slow and Arthur watched with a sense of impending doom as Cyrus' back foot collided with the heavy wooden pail. His servant teetered upright for a moment, upper body swaying as he sought equilibrium, but it was a lost cause. He hit the ground with an almighty _'thunk'_, water pooling around him from the overturned pail, the metal pitcher flying from his hands and skittering across the floor, bouncing off the opposite wall.

Arthur pushed the goblet aside and dropped his ferociously aching head back into his hands. There was silence for one beat, two, three. Then the babbling litany of apologies began again and he growled low in his throat, gripping his fringe in both fists.

"_Cyrus_."

Dripping wet and near frantic with remorse, the inept servant crawled towards the mop. "I'll clean it up immediately, sire."

"No, just-" Arthur waved a hand towards the door, squeezing his eyes closed. "Just leave. I'll have someone else do it."

The boy's face paled and he stared up at the prince in obvious terror, hands shaking.

"Oh, get up, you fool," Arthur groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm not sentencing you to death for tipping over a bucket. Although if you linger in my sight another second, I might just throw you in the stocks for plain _idiocy_."

"Oh! I-"

"Get. _Out_."

A moment later, and Cyrus had managed to obey without causing any more accidents. Arthur glowered at the closed door, rubbing the lump on the back of his head and wondering why on earth he had taken Leon's advice and employed a _kitchen_ boy as his manservant. Gods, how did Maerwynn cope with the lumbering idiot? He was nearly Merlin's age, younger by a few summers at most, but his clumsy hands and stumbling gait made the older servant look almost graceful. Merlin! _Graceful!_ What was the kingdom coming to?

And now look at his chambers? There was water and wine and heaven knows what else pooled all over the floor. His last clean pair of breeches were damp from the knee down on one side and the inventory list he had spent the last three days studiously compiling was now an illegible blur of ink and sodden parchment. Oh, he knew who's fault this was. The idiot just _had_ to have gotten himself stabbed during the battle, hadn't he? The promised five days were surely over by now. It had felt like months since he'd last seen some semblance of order about his chambers. Fie, he was _sick and tired_ of it all!

He thumped wooden surface before him with a clenched fist, brow furrowed. The wine goblet, which had been perched precariously on the very edge of the table, toppled sideways and fell to the floor with a loud clatter. Liquid splashed against the toes of his boots.

Standing up suddenly and kicking his chair back, Arthur clenched both hands into fists and marched towards the door. Enough was enough. Merlin's leave of absence was over.

o~O~o

He poked at his dinner, trying to bring himself to take a bite despite the almost painful pressure of the food already in his stomach. Maerwynn had forced two servings of beef stew down him, followed by a warm, sweet pastry that was sticky with honey and sprinkled with pine nuts. It had tasted so good, he hadn't realised just how full he was feeling until he'd licked the last of the crumbs from his fingers. And now...heavens, he couldn't manage another bite. He had spent the last few minutes breathing slowly and deeply to try to lessen the tight pressure in his stomach, but if he continued to ignore his meal Gaius would be sure to notice that something was amiss. In the physician's eyes, Merlin with no appetite was a worrying thing indeed. The elderly man would force a vile potion down his throat before he could think up a suitable excuse.

And yet, even if he hadn't already eaten, he doubted his apetite would still be at its best. On his way back from the kitchens, he had run into Morgana. She had said nothing, _done_ nothing, but the fiery animosity in her eyes had made his blood run cold. There was nothing left of the woman he had once respected; he had once cared deeply for. Even her beauty seemed tainted by her hatred. Her face angular and unbecomingly pale, her once melodious voice over-sweet and mocking. It was as though the truth had removed a veil from his eyes. He had gazed upon her anew and seen her for what she truly was; evil.

"What are you thinking about?"

Merlin stirred his stew slowly, watching as a floating lump of _something_ tossed and turned in the dark whirlpool. "Morgana." The word stuck in his throat, thick and painful. He swallowed forcefully. "If I had told her about magic instead of sending her into the forest of the Druids, if from the very beginning I had _explained_ to her how magic could be used for good...do you think she'd still be the person she once was?"

Gaius squeezed the wrist that was resting on the tabletop, his eyes kind and understanding. "You couldn't have done anything to prevent this, Merlin. I fear the poisoning of her spirit began long ago, when she was but a child. Her father was such a kind and generous man. When he died and Uther took her in, Morgana was starved of that love. The king cared for her deeply, gave her everything she might desire, save the open affection she truly needed. A child unloved cannot flourish. I offered what care I could, but I believe she learned to harden her heart against the world at a very young age."

Staring at his stew glumly, Merlin mumbled, "Why is Uther so blind to her true nature?"

Gaius shook his head. "I don't know. It's a mystery." He studied his ward for a long moment, his expression serious. "You must be wary of her, my boy. She _will_ try again."

"I'm not afraid of her," Merlin protested softly, determinedly squashing a piece of carrot beneath his spoon as though the very act would thwart Morgana's plans.

"You should be."

He set the spoon down, defeated by the weight of his own disappointment. "No. No, all I feel for her is...sad. She's become so bitter, so full of...hate."

Gaius leaned forwards, squeezing his wrist again emphatically. "Don't let that happen to you, Merlin."

He managed a half-smile as the physician released him, and dropped his gaze to his untouched meal. "Nothing could ever make me that angry."

"_Merlin!"_

The door swung open and a scowling Arthur leaned around the frame. He spotted Merlin and glowered. "Get your lazy backside out here."

Merlin looked and Gaius and raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching. "Although on second thoughts..."

"_Now!_"

Sliding off his chair, he hurried after the prince, closing the chamber door behind him. As he reached the top of the spiralling stairs that lead down into the main courtyard, Arthur glanced back up at him. "Be careful, some idiot's left a basket half way down."

"Didn't know you cared so much about my safety, sire."

"Shut up, Merlin."

He smiled, warmth filling his chest. Now _that_ was more like it. Ah, blessed normality; all would be well.

* * *

**_And thus ends the story!_**

**_Again, a HUGE thank you to all readers, especially to the reviewers who delivered such kind and generous feedback. I've been completely overwhelmed by this story's popularity. 240 story reviews! I'd never dreamed of reaching such a figure. This has been such a confidence booster for me, and I can't begin to tell you how much I've enjoyed sharing my story with you. You've all been wonderful._**

**_I hope to have another story out soon, but at the moment I'm caught between a 'Merlin' fanfic and a 'Chronicles of Narnia' fanfic. Either way, a new story will emerge sometime within the next few weeks._**

**_Take care!_**

**_xxx_**


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